


Three Rings to Rule Them All

by TwistedHilarity



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Erebor Never Fell, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst with a Happy Ending, Because they are freaking adorable, But also more fluff, Cherry-picked cannon, Dwobbits, Everybody loves Dwobbits, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Multi, Nori is a Dick too, Oops, The One Ring is a Dick, so is Dwalin, there really is more angst here than I intended
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 10:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3443945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwistedHilarity/pseuds/TwistedHilarity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a little known fact of Middle Earth that Hobbits shall save the world. Hobbits from the Took clan, if we are going to be precise, and whenever a wizard is involved, it always pays to be precise.</p><p>The problem is that if Tooks are required to save the world, then the world requires Tooks. So every Took lass is encouraged to marry so they can set about making MORE Tooks. And that? That is something that Bella Baggins is not at all interested in. Babies, yes, because who can resist those? But until she finds a hobbit lad she finds appealing, she is perfectly content to wait, and perhaps go on an adventure or two.</p><p>Bella, however, is more important than she realizes, and before she knows it, she will be battling Trolls and orcs, conversing with Elves, and charming one grouchy, exceedingly bossy dwarf with sad eyes and far too many muscles. Whom she may have, quite accidentally, ended up married to.</p><p>(Edited to reflect story as it progresses)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - The Last Great Pretentiously-Named Hope of Middle Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief history explaining the mystery of why Tooks are mischievous bundles of trouble, what happened to Belladonna Baggins, and why Thorin Oakenshield is a big huge bundle of man pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer - no, of course I don't own anything related to Tolkien at all. Sigh.
> 
> -First foray into this fandom, and a Big Bang, so apologies for all I get wrong! There will be some cherry-picked canon from movie and books, but it's a bit AU so there'll be some things that aren't canon at all. This sucker ended up being a bit of a monster in terms of size, so it's going to take a bit to get it all uploaded. But never fear, it's done, phew!
> 
> \- No idea why Bilbo insisted on being a girl rather than a cute little mpreg hobbit, but that's the way my brain went so I'm just going for it.
> 
> \- Tags and relationships will be updated as it goes along. No warnings, because that kind of gives it away, but there is the possibility of sexual assault, violence, torture, gore, any kind of sex imaginable (M/M, F/M, M/M/M). No Durincest, although I couldn't let a story go by without a touch of brotherly incest somewhere along the way. Not saying who, though. *it's a surprise* 
> 
> \- As both artists who volunteered to make wonderful art for this story ended up choosing to do a scene from a specific chapter, I'll have the link for their art in the chapter where it occurs. ^_^
> 
> \- The story will have a happy ending, because why else am I letting them all live, right?

It was often said that long ago one of the Took ancestors must have taken a fairy wife. That was, of course, absurd, but there was still something not entirely hobbit-like about them, and once in a while members of the Took clan would go and have adventures and discreetly disappear.

This was, unbeknownst to most inhabitants of Middle Earth, entirely the fault of Gandalf the Gray.

It is not surprising that so few were aware of Gandalf’s involvement. A mere five were present when it happened: the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien, the Lord of Rivendell, Gandalf the Gray, and one small hobbit named Oleander Took, who lived so long ago that she still resided in the Vales of Anduin, east of the Misty Mountains. 

Gandalf, you see, had been the driving force behind the Last Great Hope of Middle Earth… not that Oleander Took would refer to it as such; she never did approve of Gandalf and the Elves and their dramatics. They were far too fond of putting on airs, in her opinion; the ‘Last Great Hope’ was simply a fancy way of saying ‘doing what needed to be done by those as can do it.’ A plan, nothing more, nothing less.

Of course, once the Plan became reality, more folk were told of it. No Last Great Hope can be carried out by a mere five, not when an endeavor spans centuries. And with wizards, it frequently does. As a result, select additions to these chosen few were added: namely, the heads of the Took clan in every generation.

And so it has been for hundreds upon hundreds of years. Those responsible for the Tooks are granted a private meeting with Gandalf when they take over from the previous generation. Here, they are taught about how the Plan – conceived by none other than Gandalf the Gray – is the reason behind the Took’s penchant for mischief and adventuring.

Now, the sharing of knowledge is not something that comes naturally to a wizard, even when he has promised, as Gandalf had, that Oleander’s descendants would never be left in ignorance of their role. So while there was never an attempt to keep Gandalf’s involvement, or indeed the Plan, secret from the Tooks, neither was an attempt made for the information to be entirely straightforward.  

Upon their meeting with Gandalf, all heads of the Took clan knew the following: the Tooks were responsible for destroying the One Ring and the resulting taint was what caused such unhobbit-like behavior in their line.

Or maybe it was that they _would be_ responsible for destroying the One Ring, and they needed to develop their skills in adventuring looking toward that eventuality.

Or perhaps it was that they _were_ destroying the One Ring right at this very moment, simply by embracing their own sense of mischief.

Although every new head of the Tooks came away from their meeting with Gandalf certain that they’d understood every word, reflecting on it later, none could recall exactly what was said. Which might have something to do with the fact that Gandalf seldom used one word when he could use a more confusing five. The only fact that was certain was the knowledge that the safety of Middle Earth required one thing: Tooks.

Many Tooks. 

The more Tooks the better, in fact. If every Took had more than a dozen fauntlings, Gandalf said, the world would be a better and merrier place, even if their larders were significantly emptier.

And so life went on, with the Took clan growing larger than any other in the Shire, and Gandalf grew more and more content. Until one day, something happened that Gandalf did not intend, and the Plan changed.

Gandalf still encouraged the Tooks’ fruitfulness, until it was a rare thing indeed to find a Took family with less than half a dozen progeny.  But, with a set of worried lines creasing his brow more deeply each year, Gandalf began to pay closer attention to a certain branch of the Tooks: the descendants of Isengrim Took II, grandfather to the famous Bandobras “Bullroarer” Took.

The year that Isengrim was born, Gandalf began to visit the Shire every spring, when young couples pledged their troth under the courting tree, and then in the winter when hobbits were in need of poultice and tincture. He entertained fauntlings at the harvest festivals, helped midwives with their difficult births, and eventually became such a common sight in the Shire that none thought twice about seeing a tall, gray figure making his way down the lanes of Hobbiton or Tuckborough.

And if he spent more time with Isengrim than any other, it passed unmentioned by most.

Gandalf was present when Isengrim’s first son was born - at sunset, as were most Tooks - and he brought the babe into the world with his own hands. He hardly blinked at the sun’s dying glow surrounding the child with its first breath, waving away the midwife’s concerns with an explanation of sunset and candlelight and an unusual build up of mist inside the smial. But as the lad and his younger siblings grew, even other Tooks could tell that there was something decidedly odd about Isengrim and his family.

They were even more inclined toward adventure than the rest of the clan, not to mention exceedingly stubborn and possessed of a healthy dash of temper and rashness, besides. No matter what their elders said, no matter how Gandalf tried to counsel them, they preferred to adventure early and often, in the most exciting ways they could conceive of. This usually involved steep cliffs, raging rivers, and assorted dark creatures, all of which permanently ended their adventures with alarming regularity.

Adventuring of such vigor will take its toll on a family line, even one as prolific as the Tooks, and so it was that after many years, there was only one young hobbit left in Isengrim’s bloodline: Belladonna Took.

Belladonna herself had tried to go a wandering with her youngest brothers but had been thwarted when, a day before they were to leave, she tripped over a rake in the yard and sprained her ankle. She always huffed and claimed that it was as though the air itself had pulled her feet out from under her at just the wrong moment.

She tended to glare at an unconcerned looking Gandalf whenever she said this.

Poor Belladonna was forced to stay home and recover, waiting for brothers and sisters that would never come back. But finally, a year later, she was fully healed and set to try adventuring on her own. So on a cloudless spring morning, she set off for market with coins hidden in her skirt’s pocket, planning what supplies she would need, and ran directly into Bungo Baggins, sending both of them sprawling into the dusty lane.

By his fourth flustered, ‘Please do excuse me!’ Belladonna had decided that she was rather desperately in love.

Bungo and she pledged to each other under the courting tree that very night and a few years later, as soon as she passed her twenty-fifth birthday, they were wed. And when they entered Bag End for the first time as man and wife, they carved their name into the large oak tree beside the bright green door, still tipsy from the wedding toasts.

Gandalf talked often with Belladonna of the children she would soon have, visiting every few months and bringing books and maps of far-off places to help ease the longing for adventure until Belladonna became pregnant with her first child.

And then, Gandalf disappeared. Not that Bungo or Belladonna paid notice, at first, for they had much more important matters to worry about.

Pregnancy did not sit easily with Belladonna Baggins. When her morning sickness finally passed, far into the second half of the pregnancy, she began to suffer from headaches so severe that the worried midwife forced her to keep to her bed. She grew pale and weak, and in the last few months Bungo would gently gather her small, round body in his arms and carry her to the hand sewn cushions he’d placed in the grass, so that she could lie in the garden under the shade of the oak tree.

Daily, Belladonna read Gandalf’s tales of far away places and spoke to a patient Bungo about all that she would do once their child was born. She would travel to Rivendell to see the Elves. To Erebor to see the Dwarves. To Rohan to see the Horse Lords. Perhaps even all the way to Gondor.

As her body weakened, Bungo agreed to all that Belladonna suggested, and then crept into the study late at night to write letters for Gandalf the Gray, which he sent to every city in every corner of every map he’d ever read.

He bought two travelling cloaks, and packs filled to the brim with anything and everything a hobbit couple might need on the road, plus a cherry-red velvet shawl, large enough to make a sling for the babe, if they so desired. He placed them all in the bedroom against the wall, so that Belladonna would see them the moment she woke in the mornings, which never failed to bring a smile to her face.

Of course they would travel once she was well, he told her, watching the road for the wizard that would never come. There was nothing Bungo would like better than to travel for days on end in filthy conditions. After all, they couldn’t let such lovely cloaks and packs collect dust in their cellar, now could they?

 _Her_ task was to concentrate on keeping up her strength, he reminded her. He would take care of the planning.

And of _course_ he was going _with_ her. Did she think he would let her have an adventure on her own? Bungo Baggins, who had always wanted to leave his comfortable hobbit hole and his slippers and his tea?

No, she was remembering quite incorrectly that he’d told her that he would never leave the Shire. Belladonna loved adventuring, and Bungo was quite sure that _he_ would love it as well.

Quite sure. She would see, as soon as the child was born.

And if his eyes watered at times, if his hands shook when he was alone in their small kitchen as he fixed their tea, if he cursed silently every time a letter was returned informing him that Gandalf the Gray was not to be found, that was no one’s business but his own.

When Belladonna’s vision began to grow blurry, weeks before the babe was due, Bungo sat down with the midwife and listened carefully as she told him they needed to force the babe to come early if they wanted mother and child to have a chance at survival.

He agreed to any and all treatment the midwife suggested, oils and teas, massages and tinctures. Bella and he clung to each other once the contractions finally started, she too weak to even sit on the birthing stool, laying on her side on the bed. And as the sun began to set and the midwife urged her to push, Bungo stroked her hair as Belladonna smiled weakly, head lolling on the pillow.

She would be fine, he assured her, his voice scratchy and hoarse. They would be travelling together before she knew it. A few more pushes, that was all that was needed, and then she could rest, and they would greet their child together.

And Gandalf the Gray travelled, all unknowing, distracted by the rumors of orcs amassing in the south, and more in the north, and yet more seen in far too great numbers everywhere from east of the Misty Mountains to, so rumor had it, within sight of Bree. And always ahead of the small, desperate, letters of Bungo Baggins.

So unlike the births of the other descendants of Isengrim’s line, Gandalf was not present with Bungo to witness the glow that overtook Belladonna’s daughter the moment of her birth as she was lit with the setting sun. Not that Bungo paid attention to such things.

Holding their child in his arms, still pale and slimy, the smallest being Bungo had ever beheld, he turned to show Belladonna and stared at her face, paler than snow. He stood, statue-still, with a squirming, mewling babe in his arms, ignoring the midwife’s frantic movements around his wife’s body.

Belladonna’s eyes were closed, and her body still, and there was something terribly wrong with that.

Didn’t she want to see her daughter? he asked, walking up to her side, avoiding the dripping, crimson cloths that the midwife repeatedly flung from Belladonna’s body in her hurry to replace them with thick, absorbent white ones.

He put his hand on Belladonna’s face, cupping her cold cheek. She had to open her eyes if she wished to see their little one. Their daughter was beautiful, bright copper curls, just like her mother. Didn’t Belladonna wish to see her before she slept?

Please, couldn’t she open her eyes for a moment?

He was still standing by her side, his hand stroking her sweat-damped curls, when the midwife stopped moving. She slumped against the bed before she started apologizing, wringing her bloody hands.

So sorry.

She was so, so sorry.

Holding his little girl close to his chest, Bungo could only nod as she spoke at him. Yes, she could speak to Mistress Gamgee to see if she’d be willing to nurse his babe as well as her own. Yes, she could stay to fix him a meal before she left.

Yes, he would take care of seeing to his wife’s…to his wife. 

He buried Belladonna underneath the oak tree and planted her grave with primrose for eternal love and rue for bitter sorrow. With not a second’s thought, he named his daughter Belladonna in her honor, because the world should not exist without a Belladonna at Bag End. And three days after his wife went into the ground, he received the last returned letter he’d sent out in search of Gandalf.

He burned it in the hearth fire.

The rest of Hobbiton and the Baggins clan could have their propriety and their comfort and their respectability. The rest of the Tooks could have their dozen children each. _His_ daughter was going to have what her mother never could: an adventure.

*

 

_TA 2905_

Thorin’s grandfather and his father had raised him to be stone, as all good dwarves should be. Stones did not whine when their muscles hurt from hours of sword practice. Stones did not weep when their mothers passed into the Halls of Mandos. Stones did not suffer nightmares after witnessing King Girion slay Smaug the Terrible.

Stones, good dwarven stones, were hard as diamond, hard enough to stand as an example for others, to make the difficult decisions, to sacrifice for the better good.

Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, knew that he was nothing nearly as precious as a diamond, except perhaps one with a fatal flaw.

But when Thorin was crowned king, suddenly in charge of a grieving kingdom, its warrior ranks decimated after the Battle of Azanulbizar, its reputation in tatters, he had no choice but to emulate one. He slowly, painfully, won back their aggrieved allies, sacrificing his pride more often than not, his sleep uneasy with the knowledge that their new alliances were as fragile and brittle as fall leaves.

He kept the Arkenstone above his throne at all times, a reminder of his family’s failures and obsession, and if, over time, he found his gaze drawn to it increasingly during the day, he was merely reflecting on his responsibilities.

If he was, at times, concerned about the state of the treasury, that, too, was expected. They had worked hard to recover; they needed to ensure they had the resources to keep their kingdom prospering no matter what new disaster might occur. They had to be prepared for anything. Any horror.

Yet in the end, nothing, not Smaug, not his grandfather’s or his father’s loss of sanity, not even the slaughter at Khazad-dûm, horrified Thorin as much as his own actions after a minor collapse of a tunnel in the mines. And it pulled aside the curtain of his delusions to shine a light on his own flaw with nauseating clarity.

Inspecting the new tunnel, he had brought a bouncing, gleeful Kíli with him. Thorin had just been handed an enormous nugget of gold, heavy and solid in his palms, when the world shook with a rumbling roar and the path ahead crumbled into the depths, sending Kíli over the edge. His sister-son had screamed for him, hanging on by his fingertips, the whites of his eyes huge in his beardless face as he scrabbled to hold on.

And Thorin, who could not have loved his sister-sons more than if they were his own children, had to let go of the gold so he could reach down to save Kíli, and _he_ _had hesitated._ For a moment, even if it only _was_ a moment, the thought of losing the gold into the abyss had mattered more than losing Kíli.

He left Erebor within the week.

He would not do as his father had and ignore his own flaws. Thorin was turning into the type of dwarf that he loathed more than orcs: those lost to gold madness, obsessed with treasure and gold over kith and kin. If he stayed, he would destroy his family and his kingdom, as had Thrór, as had Thráin.

Thorin would _not_ remain to become a curse on his own people.

He did not know if it was a weakness of his line, or if it was connected to that cursed Arkenstone, but he took no chances. One week after nearly losing Kíli, Thorin Oakenshield carefully packed a travelling bag and made his way into the throne room through the secret passage from his chambers.

He took the Stone from its place above the throne and hid it underneath the memorial of Nain I at the entrance to the Durin family tomb.  As the sun crept above the horizon, melting the morning frost, he made his way out of the mountain, walking with the stream of merchants heading to Dale, his face lost in the depths of his hood.

Then, after one last look at the gates of Erebor, Thorin Oakenshield turned and entered his own exile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoping to keep this shorter than it used to be, as I seem to have managed to make the longest set of notes in existence, somehow. :-/


	2. Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All is not well in Erebor, and Bella meets an old friend of the family who doesn't impress her one, little bit. Scare the stuffing out of her, yes, but impress? Certainly not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning: I'm trying to write this puppy as fast as I can as I aim for the end of the Hobbit Big Bang, which is April 2, eek! So it's gonna be a little rough for now in terms of editing. Apologies, but having to put it up here helps motivate me!
> 
> And the Disclaimer - I don't own the Hobbit or any of Tolkien's works, because if I did, I would have given the Durins a better ending.

 

_TA 2908_

_City-state of Dale_

Dwalin’s head swum pleasantly as he took a piss in the warm, fragrant alley behind the King’s Favor. Good ale, tonight. Somehow it always tasted better when someone else’s coin bought it. Even more when that coin was won from new recruits who thought they could outdrink the Captain of the Royal Guard. They’d need another century before they were going to be any real challenge, but that never seemed to stop them from boasting.

Young lads always needed a few lessons before they learned their place in the world. Thankfully, if losing a week’s wages didn’t do it, a hard knock to the head worked wonders. He was happy to provide either lesson.

Dwalin was tucking himself away when he felt a sharp pressure against the side seam of his tunic and a hand low on his back. He would swear he could feel its heat through the woolen fabric.

He must be drunker than he’d thought; he hadn’t heard so much as a whisper behind him.  He glanced down; the knife was no bigger than his palm. “Is that supposed to be a knife? I’ve seen bigger blades on tin soldiers.”

“Big enough.” The accent was rougher than Dwalin was used to. Not Erebor. Sounded more like someone from the Blue Mountains. Low and behind – another dwarf, then, or a very short man.

Dwalin shook his head, tying up his trousers calmly. “You picked the wrong dwarf to try your hand on, thief.” He cracked his knuckles, grinning at the brick wall in front of him.  It’d be good to break a few bones tonight.

“Don’ think so,” the voice murmured.

Dwalin barely moved, a tightening of muscles as he readied himself to twist and snap an elbow back, but the knife dug in, cutting through the seam like cobwebs until he felt the point against his skin.

“Ah ah, no sudden moves, Cap’n. This blade is coated with Bollockwort.”

Dwalin froze. Now that was a different fiddle altogether. He’d rather not die choking for air with his stones swelled up the size of melons. “And why would a thief be using a poisoned blade?” Dwalin said, stalling as he thought quickly.  “The penalty for that is more than the one for theft.”

“Why, waitin’ to use it on the Bleedin’ Cap’n of the Royal Guard.” The voice actually sounded amused. Dwalin wondered how he’d sound when Dwalin flattened his nose. “I have questions. You have answers. I get what I wan’ and you get to live to drink yourself stupid another night. Oh, your pardon. Drink yourself stupid _er_.”

Forget his nose, Dwalin was going to flatten his _skull._ “Have a death wish, do you, laddie?” he growled.

“No more’n any other. Now, these questions…”

“Suck your da’s cock.” Dwalin shifted and the hand on his back shifted with him, along with the knife. He could hear the man moving to keep out of easy reach.

“That’s not very friendly. You don’ even know what I was goin’ to ask.”

Dwalin didn’t speak, gritting his teeth.

The hand at the small of his back patted him gently. “Don’ fret, now. You really don’ have a choice but to answer.”

He was going to rip off the man’s arm and _feed_ it to him. “Fuckin’ hell I don’t,” Dwalin growled.

“Well, there’s no choice if you wan’ to _live._ All you have to do is give me some information on a few o’ the Durins. That’s not too much to ask, now is it?” The point of the dagger dragged against Dwalin’s skin playfully.

This little coward wanted information on the family? “Go fuck an orc.”

There was a pause. “You sure, now? You don’ even know which Durin I’d be askin’ you about. Mebbe it’s one you’ve no care for.”

“You won’t get a word from me, you pig’s arse. Might as well stick me and be done.” Whether he used the blade or not, the thief wouldn’t be leaving the alley alive.

“I can’t change your mind on this? There’s some willin’ to pay good coin for this sort o’ thing. You wouldn’ be left with nothin’ from the deal.”

“I’d rather deep throat a tree-shagger.” Dwalin got ready to move.

“Now that… is exactly what I’d hoped to hear.”

What?

“D’ you know how hard i’tis to find a truly loyal man? One who won’ be bought? I thought for certain it’d be quite the search to find such a dwarf in Erebor…but then I heard of you. King Thorin’s shadow. Regent Frerin’s right hand. The Heirs’ shield. A man who would kill and die for the Royal Family. I’m sure you’ll forgive me for makin’ sure and certain, though. It’s rather hard to believe such a paragon exists.” The voice was mocking.

“Did you have a point or are you just flapping your gums?” Dwalin stayed his hand. He needed to understand what was _going on,_ and _then_ he could kill the guttersnipe.

“I have information the Regent needs to know, and I need to make certain it gets to the right ears rather than goin’ astray.”

“You. Have information. And you think I’d trust you?”

“Of course not.” A hint of a snap to the voice now, Dwalin noted. Good. “I don’ need you to trust me. I only need you to listen. A man like you, you’ll know what to do with what you hear.”

“Pull that pig-sticker away from my back, first,” Dwalin snapped, and was shocked when the knife was instantly withdrawn.

Dwalin whipped around, jabbing his elbow into the space where the man’s head had been, but the shorter dwarf had already skipped back, his hair and eyes covered by a deep cowl. His braided beard was dark, but it was too dim in the alley to make out its color. The knife was nowhere to be seen.

Dwaling cracked his knuckles again and with pulled his axe from his back with a grin. At least he hadn’t been stupid enough to leave both axes back in Erebor. “I don’t like being threatened. Tends to put me in a bad mood.” He watched the man carefully. The thief’s hands were steady. No shifting of his feet. Whoever he was, he wasn’t _nearly_ nervous enough for someone facing Dwalin with his axe out.

The man smirked. “I’ll remember that for the future,” he said. He glanced to the edge of the alley, cast a speculative look at Dwalin, and stepped close as though Dwalin didn’t have a bared blade that could take off his head. The thief kept his hands out, showing a lack of weapons.

Dwalin had to admire the dwarf’s balls.

“You have a new problem with falsified papers.”

Dwalin waited for more and raised a scathing eyebrow. “That’s it? You risked my taking your head off to talk about falsified _papers?”_ Dwalin slammed his axe back into place over his back. It’d be more satisfying to beat the man to a pulp with his fists, anyway. “It’s a petty crime. Talk to the record keepers if you suspect someone’s avoiding their taxes. When you can walk again.” He took a step forward, fists coming up prepared to beat that irritating smirk off the man’s face.

“How about a dwarf impersonating a member o’ the line of Durin?” The dwarf asked softly.

Dwalin froze again. Beatings could wait. “What do you know?”

“I know that Nori, Dori, and Ori, sons of Ríkví, requested verification of their ties to the line of Durin three years ago. I know that their claim was verified last year and that they left Ered Luin in the early spring.”

“I’m aware,” Dwalin said. “Are you accusing _them_ of falsifying their papers?” _That_ was a claim worth paying attention to.

The man’s voice hardened. His fists clenched. “I’m accusing the dwarrows _claiming_ to be the sons of Ríkví of _stealing_ their papers.”

Dwalin shook his head. “Hard to believe. Ori is a scribe apprenticing with the King’s advisor. Not an easy talent to fake. His brothers have a tailor’s shop in the main marketplace.”

“Five days from Ered Luin, the sons of Ríkví were attacked on the road by a company of men and dwarrows,” the dwarf hissed. “Their papers were stolen and they were taken away to be killed while the thieves continued on to Erebor.”

If true…if true, there were imposters near the Royal line. Near his _brother._ They weren’t invited to small family events, but the three dwarrows had been allowed to celebrate the more important holidays like Durin’s Day with the Royal family.

Even if Dwalin didn’t believe the damn thief, he’d never be able to rest until he at least looked into it. And if it _were_ true…they’d need to find out exactly what was going on. Something this elaborate suggested a much larger purpose, and with the trouble they’d been having lately…

“How do you know this?” Dwalin asked quietly.

The dwarf swept out his hands with a sharp grin. “Nori, son of Ríkví, at your service.” He bowed, and his grin grew sharper. “As it turns out, me and my brothers aren’ as easy to kill as one might think. But I’d like to be reacquainted with some of those who thought different.”

Dwalin slowly nodded his head back. “I’ll look into it.”

“All I ask.”

Dwalin nodded, then jabbed out with his fist.  Nori flew back, bouncing against the wall before falling to his knees, clutching his belly and retching. “Next time you pull a knife on me, laddie, it’ll be my axe in your gut.”

When he finally stopped gagging, Nori grinned up at him, cocky even sitting in alley trash. “How else was I to get your attention?”

“Try buyin’ me a drink.”   

Nori froze in the act of rubbing his stomach and grinned wider.

“Not that sorta drink, you filthy minded shite.” Dwalin had the urge to hit him again

Nori held up his hands. “I didn’ say a word.”

Dwalin stared at him hard. “You really have bollockwort on that blade?”

“Hope you never have to find out.” Nori pushed to his feet, then shifted to the side and tapped on a random brick in the wall behind him. It had a hollow sound to it. “You need to get word to me, leave a message here,” he said, pulling it out and showing the empty space behind. His face grew serious. “They came at my brothers, you understand? I wan’ those turd-lickers _dead._ ”

“If they’re impersonating members of the Royal family, they will be.” Dwalin almost said nothing more, but he thought of Balin and added, “I’ll leave you word.”

Nori nodded. And then with quick smile, before Dwalin could hit him again, he slipped out of the alleyway. Dwalin cursed, stomping after him, but in the few steps it took for Dwalin to follow, he’d disappeared into the crowd.

Dwalin blew out a breath. “I need another drink after this shite.” He turned away from the pub, though, and headed straight back to Erebor. This couldn’t wait. He had some Ravens to send.

It wasn’t until two days later, when he next went out for an ale, that he realized all the coin in his moneypouch had been replaced by a small knife he’d last seen poking into his side.

 

***

 

_TA 2914_

_The Shire_

Bella knelt in the grass, sweating in the mid-summer heat, her red-gold curls heavy and hot against the back of her neck. “You missed a lovely sunset last night, da,” she said quietly, digging in more compost for the pale pink primroses underneath the oak tree. She liked to make sure the flowers were well nourished on his Remembrance Day. “Like red columbines streaked across the entire sky.”

She sat back on her heels, brushing the dirt from her hands. “I think you would have liked it too, mother. He always said you liked red the best.” Smiling sadly to herself, she stood and put her hand on their initials, still visible in the oak’s bark.  “I miss you,” she whispered. 

Her ears caught the crunch of footsteps coming down the lane past her house but she didn’t bother to turn. They would pass on by. She was still running her fingers over her mother’s name when she realized there was no more sound.

They’d stopped?

Someone had stopped in front of _her_ gate?

Oh goodness. She frantically brushed the dirt from her skirt, wincing as she noticed green smudges around her knees. She’d _never_ get the stains out. What had possessed her to wear her yellow frock _today?_ Plain foolishness. And look, the lovely red bodice had brown streaks covering the front now, too.

She stared down at herself, hands dropping to her sides. Trying to make herself presentable was clearly a lost cause. With a sigh, she turned to greet whoever had braved the local gossips to actually stop and say good morning to ‘Queer Bella Baggins.’  

She froze as soon as she turned, an old reflex that many a hobbit had when confronted by a possible predator. Or in this case, something extremely large and unexpected.

This was no hobbit. One of the _Big Folk_ was standing in front of her gate!  He was holding a long, gnarled staff, wore a tall pointed hat that made him seem even larger than he actually was, and he had long white hair _on his face_.

He must be stifling with all that hair, she thought faintly.

“I’ve never seen a beard before,” she blurted, and wished she could turn and hide in her smial as soon as she said it.

“Well that will be the last time you can say that, my dear Ms. Baggins.” He smiled, his eyes twinkling mischievously – if anyone could recognize a mischievous twinkle, it was a Took – and she smiled in return automatically.

She couldn’t remember seeing any of the Big Folk in the Shire in her lifetime. Her smile fell as she thought about it. “How do you know my name?”

“I would know a child of Belladonna Took’s anywhere. I’ve known her since the day she was born.” He stepped up close to the gate. With his beaky nose, he looked like some large gray raptor looking down on her.

“I…hadn’t realized she knew any of the Big Folk,” Bella murmured. Had da mentioned anyone? She had something tickling the back of her mind, but it was so faint she couldn’t pull it free.

“She’s never mentioned Gandalf the Gray? Now that does surprise me,” he murmured. Bella took a step back toward her door, uncomfortable with the sharpness of his gaze.

And with his words. Of course her mother had never mentioned him; she was dead. If this Gandalf fellow didn’t know that, how close to her mother could he really be?

“Um,” she said nervously, taking another step back. She should simply run inside and slam the door behind her. The door was stout enough to keep even someone as large as him out, wasn’t it? “Yes, well…” But it would be so terribly, terribly rude if he hadn’t given her more cause than lying about a connection to her family. Goodness, that was something even the Sackville-Bagginses did. “I’m certain that she would have, if she could have…”

He reached down and opened the gate, shaking his head as he stepped into the yard. “I never thought I’d live to see the day when a daughter of Belladonna Took met an old friend of her mother’s and didn’t even invite him in for tea.”

Bella backed slowly away, so surprised he’d walked in without asking that for a moment she couldn’t think. Big Folk were so _huge._ Two steps and he was already half way across the yard!

“T-tea?” she said faintly. She yelped as he put an enormous hand at her back, turning her and pushing her implacably toward the front door. He moved so fast!

“Don’t mind if I do,” he said, and before Bella could yell for help, he’d hustled them both inside and closed the door behind them, trapping her.

Her heart pounding, Bella stumbled along in his grip as he pushed her toward the kitchen. What did he want?! She whipped around, backing away to the wall and watching warily as he settled himself at the table. With a benign smile, he looked at her curiously, as though he hadn’t just invaded her home.

What was she going to do? What was _he_ going to do?

He hadn’t done more than push his way inside, but…well…who went around inviting themselves into strange smials without so much as a ‘by your leave?’ And she’d heard Big Folk could be dangerous, especially to women. No one liked to speak of it, but Bella had heard the stories, about hobbit lasses who disappeared sometimes near Bree and turned up later bloody and bruised and frightened of men.

What if he was one of _those_ types? How could she tell?

She clenched her fists, looking around the kitchen while trying not to look like she was. What could she use if he turned dangerous?  She had knives on the sideboard, but…she’d never thought how small they were compared to someone that _large._ He’d probably get worse cuts from a letter opener than one of her knives.

Why had she never thought about how a hobbit could stop one of the Big Folk? If she survived this, she was getting a _sword_ and keeping it in her kitchen, she swore it.

“Are you having trouble with the tea?” Gandalf asked, as politely as the Baggins Matriarch. He leaned his staff against the table, letting it jut out into the middle of the floor.

“I…I’ll have it ready in a trice.” Maybe if she indulged him, he’d have his tea and be on his way and give her no more trouble. She moved the full kettle to the hook over the fire, stoking the flames with the poker. There, another thing she could use as a weapon.  If he…if he was one of _those_ Big Folk, she would poke him right in the eye.

Her iron skillet hung next to the hook against the wall and she eyed it, as well.  She thought a skillet to the chestnuts was likely to fell any male, even one so large as this one. She wasn’t helpless. She’d prefer if he went quickly on his way, but if he didn’t, she could protect herself. She hoped.

“W-would you prefer black tea or…or I have a chamomile.”

“Chamomile would be lovely,” he said, still smiling.

She wished he would stop doing that. She didn’t like his smile. It made her feel as though he knew exactly what she was thinking and was laughing over it.

Skillet to the chestnuts, she reminded herself. He’d stop laughing _then._

It wasn’t until the tea had steeped and she was about to pour them each a cup that she realized she had an entire pot of boiling hot water she could throw at the man’s face if she was quick about it. Not that she would do that unless he attacked her. She wasn’t about to scald someone simply because they were exceptionally rude, no matter how large or frightening they might be. She couldn’t even imagine! How terrible if he was simply some poor, confused old man!

But…but if she needed it…

He plucked it from her fingers with a knowing look. “Thank you, my dear. But don’t worry yourself; I can pour us both a cup. You sit down and rest while we talk.”

Bella miserably took the seat opposite him. Had he guessed? He poured the tea and set down the pot on the opposite side of the table, far from her reach, still with that soft smile.

Pretending to sip her tea, she watched him cautiously. He still hadn’t _done_ anything, but his constant smiling jangled her nerves. Having so many Took relatives gave one a very good appreciation for how innocent smiles could hide any number of plans.

“Ah, this is quite lovely.” Blowing once on his tea, Gandalf took another sip and then set the cup down with a clink that echoed too loudly. “I suspect you are wondering why I am here?”

Bella nodded mutely.

For the first time, the smile dropped from his face. It left him with such a sad visage that she immediately wished for it to come back. “I have not been able to visit the Shire in quite some time,” he said quietly. “So I’m afraid that it was only recently that I received word of your father’s death. I wished to offer my condolences.”

So that was why…Bella’s throat closed up and she nodded, trying to swallow. That would explain the strange behavior. Grief did all sorts of things to one’s manners, none of them good.

“Thank you,” she murmured. The tension slipped away, replaced by the weight of grief that still hit her unexpectedly. It had been five years since she last received callers paying their respects, but she wasn’t surprised how fresh the sorrow could still be. It never seemed to get easier. “How did you know him?”

“I met him through your mother. Wonderful woman, your mother. Bungo was very lucky to have her, you know.”

Bella carefully put her teacup down and moved her hands under the table. She’d heard that same phrase far too many times from her Took relatives; it immediately put her back up, no matter how she tried to remind herself that he likely didn’t _mean_ anything by it. He wasn’t _trying_ to slight her da.

“My father was an amazing hobbit,” she said. Her _mother_ was the lucky one, she’d always thought. Her father had been the bravest, most kind-hearted soul she’d ever known.

Why did so few people understand that?

“I know he loved your mother very much. A good Baggins, through and through.”

Bella blinked at that. A good Baggins? Anyone who knew Bungo at all knew that he was considered one of the worst Bagginses in generations. At least according to every Baggins who’d known him. And most who hadn’t. No one in their right minds would ever accuse a hobbit who had spent four weeks trying to learn archery from the Bounders of being a ‘good Baggins.’

She’d spent her entire morning remembering all the things about her da that made her smile and this Gandalf casually dismissed it all with one phrase.

A good Baggins, indeed.

She bit her tongue to keep from telling him exactly how wrong he was in a voice far too strident for a day of remembrance. Except why was Gandalf _here,_ after all this time, if he knew her father so little? Was he even truly saddened by Bungo Baggin’s death, or was it as much an act as Lobelia’s show of sympathy when Bella wasn’t invited to yet another birthday?

Grief warred with rising nerves. Bella glanced at the knives on the sideboard and quickly back to Gandalf. They suddenly seemed much farther away. She stared at him; he stared back. Taking another sip of his tea, and then another, he seemed content to stare at her without a word for the rest of the afternoon. After five minutes of silence, getting angrier and more frustrated the longer she thought about him sitting in _her_ house and drinking _her_ tea, she finally broke.

“What do you want, Mister Gandalf?” She couldn’t think of a politer way to say it. No, she didn’t _want_ to think of a polite way to say this. He’d pushed his way into her home, preyed on her sympathies with his false grief, and insulted her da. She’d rather like to…to punch him in the nose. “You- you’ve had your tea, and it’s clear you’ve no real connection to my father. What do you want?”

Bella didn’t think she’d ever been so blunt in her life; it was frightening, but rather exhilarating, too!

Gandalf looked surprised again, then he frowned with an expression that made him look bilious. “Well, you don’t have much of your mother’s charm, do you?”

Oh, and how stupid and foolish was it that the words actually _stung._ “What do you _want?_ ”

Gandalf took a moment, looking over the house once for no reason she could fathom, and then he harrumphed. “I simply wished to pay my respects to your mother and her children on the loss of your father. It is as simple as that.”

“My _mother?_ ”Bella’s voice was strangled, choking her.

“Yes. The proprietor at the Green Dragon said that Belladonna was likely home today, so I thought this the perfect time. Now, my good lady, if you would be so kind as to fetch the others?”

She choked on a short, pained laugh. This made no sense! “There are no _others._ ”

Gandalf’s face froze in surprise. She was tempted to slap him to bring him out of it. “I beg your pardon?”

“There are no _others_. I live alone.” Her mind screamed at her to _shut up_ and let the man think there were dozens about to descend on them both.

He’d insulted her father and asked her to fetch her _mother_ …  She couldn’t do this. She had no idea what this lunatic might do to her right now, but she couldn’t _do this._ Not today of all days.

His face darkening, Gandalf stood, his staff jabbing into her floor with a heavy thwack. “This is not the time to be playing tricks, girl. I know that Belladonna Took lives here at Bag End.”

Bella jumped to her feet as well, shoving back from the table. “Of course she does, because _I’m_ Belladonna Took. My _mother_ is buried in the backyard under the primroses where she’s been for the past twenty-five years. If you wish so much to speak with my _mother,_ you may go outside and do it there!”

Gandalf’s face went as gray as his robes. The big man swayed, clutching his staff; she thought for a moment he was going to faint. She would walk right over him if he did, just watch!

“No,” he whispered. “No, this cannot be true. She is gone? All this time? And you have no sisters, no brothers?” He seemed to see the answer on her face because he began pacing before she said a word. Muttering to himself, he grew more and more agitated. “How can this be? Galadriel saw nothing of this. We cannot…”

Bella couldn’t have moved if she wanted to, but the moment Gandalf stopped in front of her she wished she’d already barricaded herself in her bedroom. He loomed, his eyes old and dark and terrifying.  

“You are not married,” Gandalf said, more of an accusation than a question.

She shook her head, moving back against the wall and edging her way toward the sideboard and the knives.

“Belladonna is gone. You should have been wed by now,” he growled under his breath. He jabbed his staff in her direction and she jumped. “Betrothed?”

“Pardon?” she squeaked.

“Are you betrothed? Do you have a young fellow you are stepping out with?”

She shook her head again. It was no business of his whether she was wed or not, but right at that moment, he looked far more dangerous than he had at any time since he’d forced his way into her home and she couldn’t _not_ answer him. The idea of stabbing him with a knife seemed _ludicrously_ naïve now.

“This is unacceptable. You mother gone and you not even wed yet! A betrothal, at the very least, should have been taken care of as soon as you were of age,” he muttered, pacing again. “What was that fool Flambard thinking?!”

The scathing tone in his voice was what did it. Flambard Took might not be her favorite hobbit, but he was the head of the Tooks, and the Thain, and more importantly, _family._ This man had no right to speak of him this way.

“Don’t call him a fool.” Bella had to force the words out. “It is none of his business when I marry. Nor yours, Mr. Gandalf whoever you may be. And if you are going to speak so of me and my family, you…you… you can see yourself out of my house and t-to wherever the wind takes you.” Her voice petered out at the end as Gandalf’s eyes sharpened.

The room darkened around him and she trembled and shook as shadows reached down from the ceiling like wraiths come to take her soul.

“Belladonna Baggins!” Gandalf voice echoed throughout the room like thunder.  “There is no argument on this! If I say that you shall be married, then married you shall be!”

Bella never knew where she found the strength, not ‘til her dying day, but before the shadows lifted, when Gandalf stood before her, huge and terrifying as a thunderstorm, she craned her head back, looked him in the eye, and in a small, shaky voice, said, “No.”

The shadows disappeared. Gandalf’s eyebrows rose so high they disappeared into his hair. “No? There is more to this than you know, Belladonna, and you will…”

“No,” she repeated, barely able to speak past the terror-stricken tightness in her throat, but she could not, _would not,_ let this _stranger_ make such a demand, not when she had a horrible certainty that he could actually make this happen. He was so overpowering just now that she thought he could make _anything_ happen.

She’d promised her father just one thing on his deathbed. She might not have worked up the courage to do it yet, but she had _promised_. “I’m going…I’m going on an adventure.”

Gandalf tried to stare her down. Bella pressed herself against the wall so hard she could feel bruises forming, but she didn’t lower her eyes. This intrusive outsider thought he could decide the rest of her life for her? No. No, he would _not._

She was her father’s daughter and she would not back down from this.

“You have your mother’s stubbornness,” he finally said. His voice was sad and fond, and she didn’t care.

She had her father’s stubbornness, she thought, still holding his eyes. Her _father’s._

“But this is bigger than you, my girl. Flambard knows it as well, even if he seems to have forgotten. I will be speaking with him to remind him where his duty lies. He will come and take care of this.”

Bella continued to glare at him, refusing to give an inch.

Gandalf finally sighed, turning away. “I am sorry that it must be this way, Belladonna, but your path was decided long ago. There is no choice now. Not for any of us.” He walked out of the door, closing it quietly behind him.

It was a long time before Bella could force her legs to move, but she finally tottered over to the door, dragging pieces of furniture across the entrance until it was blocked by three chests and a pile of chairs four deep.

Then she pulled the quilt off her bed, curled up in her father’s armchair, and cried herself into an exhausted sleep.

Two days later, Bella was sitting in the grass under her mother’s oak tree again, this time with a basket of snap beans in her lap and an iron skillet by her feet _._ The smial felt stifling and unsafe after Gandalf’s visit, especially once she’d gone to the Bounders and been told quite firmly not to concern herself over Gandalf and his doings.

No one listened when she tried to tell them that he was the one interfering in _her_ life. He obviously had the run of the Shire, for some reason, and it chilled Bella to think of it.

Steadily working her way through the basket, Bella snapped the ends off the beans and bit her lip.  She’d rather have sat down and eaten an entire peach pie, and used the time spent preparing beans to finish her laundry instead.  But she had been informed that the Thain was coming to dinner in two days – _informed_ , as though she were a servant in his employ! – and he had requested that she make Bungo’s famous Spicy Snap Beans and Sausage. She had nearly made him a bland oatmeal porridge, instead, but…

She always made this dish once a year. She’d been too dispirited to do so yet, though, and these were the last beans she had in her garden to work with. And it took two days to marinade the beans. And…she was hoping, somehow, that giving Flambard something he wanted might prevent him from following the orders of that soft-soled lickspittle Gandalf.

She shook her head. That wasn’t going to happen. She had no idea who Gandalf _was_ , but she knew that Flambard would listen to him. She couldn’t say why, but she _knew_ he would. As if that hadn’t already been made clear by the note she received informing her of his upcoming visit. But maybe the dish could change his mind?

She grit her teeth and continued working. On days like today, she wished she were a bit more Tookish. The Tooks were well known for ignoring inconvenient knocks at the door, as well as being able to blend in so well with their smials that irritating relatives would swear they could become invisible, at times (Bella more so than most). There was more truth to that than some hobbits might expect, but it wasn’t something the Tooks talked about to outsiders. Tooks always liked a good secret.

Besides, a proper Took didn’t need to rely on magic tricks. They were always adept at escaping out a back window, if folks were a bit too vigorous in trying to get in to have a word. It was too bad that her father had never seen the need for a backdoor, let alone a back window, when he’d made Bag End. Bella could have used it now.

She paused, wiping the sweat off her brow before it dripped down her nose and into the beans, and scowled. The very idea of what Flambard was planning to say to her tied her stomach in knots. As head of the Took clan, he’d been her guardian ever since Bungo’s death, but over the last three years, after she’d turned twenty-one, it had been increasingly forceful renditions of the same refrain.

 “A young, single female shouldn’t live in Bag End all alone,” he’d say, sad disapproval painting his round face. “It’s not right. You need a husband and babies to settle you down.”

She’d been heartily sick of that sentiment before Gandalf, but now it frightened her. Flambard might lecture and harangue, or worse, recently, but he’d never attempted to force her to accept someone’s suit. Would that change now?

She never would have thought so from the first years. Flambard had tried not to intrude on her grief for a long while. He’d let her officially keep Bag End as her residence, although she’d spent more of the first two years visiting her relatives than staying in her own home.

She and Bungo had always been closer to her Took relatives than his Baggins ones, and they’d welcomed her into their homes for weeks at a time as she’d grieved. She would always be grateful for that. They had opened her eyes to a universal truth that had saved her from drowning in her own sorrow; even grief must pause when in the company of dozens of infants and fauntlings. Holding a tiny life in her hands soothed something in her soul, even if more often than not she’d sung lullabies with tears in her eyes.

After the worst of the grief subsided, she’d had a chance to learn something that Bungo had never been able to teach her: women’s secrets. Teas for easing monthly pains. Tips for soothing early pregnancy nausea. And children. When the other Tooks realized how ignorant she was about caring for children, every last one of them had something new to teach her. Most Tooks her age already had a babe or two in arm, or clinging to their skirts, they said. Bella needed to know these things for when it was her turn.

Bella hadn’t planned for that to be any time soon. There were no hobbits she had any interest in, no matter how many parties she’d attended. But while she hadn’t wished to marry, and still didn’t, no matter what Gandalf insisted, she’d come to adore children, in all their muddy, jam-fingered glory.

She’d become so adept at caring for the little sprites that she was frequently called on because of it. Her crowning glory had been when Celandine Brandybuck had broken her leg and needed an extra hand with her new triplets. After that experience, Bella thought she could handle anything.

But once she’d turned twenty-one, everything had changed. Flambard had begun his campaign to secure her wedded bliss with a vengeance. When his visits had increased to thrice a week, pushing her to accept invitations from suitors every time, Bella had moved back into Bag End simply to avoid him.

It stymied him somewhat, but she rarely saw her Took relatives as a result, nor all their adorable little fauntlings. They lived too far away.

She hadn’t realized how different it would be, living on her own. Most of her neighbors, the Bagginses and the Boffins and even some of the Brandybucks, considered Bella rather odd, and they made no effort of any kind to deepen their acquaintance. If not for her gardener, Bella didn’t think she’d have anyone within a five-mile walk who would give her a sincerely meant ‘good morning.’

She could pretend she didn’t care, nodding and smiling quietly at those going to market past her front door, or at hobbits on their way somewhere for a visit with tea and cakes. But it was impossible to miss that hobbits always passed her door on the way to have tea _elsewhere._ Sometimes, sitting down for supper at night and realizing that she hadn’t spoken to a single person in days, she missed her Took cousins so fiercely she had to bite back the urge to cry.

She’d sincerely considered abandoning the smial again and offering to cook, to clean, _anything_ , in exchange for lodging with one of her cousins – perhaps if she had, Gandalf never would have found her.

But if not Gandalf, then Flambard would have been the problem, and Gandalf likely would have had no trouble finding _him._

She needed to do her duty to the Took family, take a husband, and have a few children, Flambard would say, the sooner the better. It wasn’t proper for Bella to go through her tweens unwed, not in the Took clan. It wasn’t respectable for her to always be out on her own. She would gain a reputation as a hobbit of questionable character, and then who would be willing to wed her?

What would the neighbors think?

Bella had always wondered at that phrase, because it wasn’t as though she didn’t know _exactly_ what the neighbors would think. No hobbit in the Shire was reticent about expressing their opinion on the lives of every _other_ hobbit. The Tooks did it to one’s face, the Bagginses behind one’s back.

Bungo, Yavanna bless his soul, hadn’t been right in the head after he lost Belladonna, she’d hear the Bagginses murmur. He shouldn’t have been left in charge of a young girl. He’d given Bella ideas, taking her to see those wild Tooks, socializing with the Bounders, tramping about in the woods making fires and snares, and…travelling. He’d talked of going as far as Bree with the girl!

No wonder she had strange ideas.  

Bella ripped the ends off the next snap bean viciously, growling under her breath as she accidently smashed it to a stringy paste in her hands. She half-tossed the basket to the ground and covered her eyes with her palms.

She was so _tired_ of it. The relatives that she could tolerate, she no longer saw, and the relatives she saw couldn't tolerate _her._ She couldn’t leave the house without smiles to her face and stares and whispering behind her back, digging into her skin until she felt wounded and raw by the time she retreated back to her house. 

And now this. Flambard had been getting worse _before_ Gandalf. He’d blackmailed her over the last birthday party she’d gone to in Tuckborough, threatening to cut off her allowance unless she danced with any of the young hobbits who asked her.

What would he do now with Gandalf pushing at him? Evict her from her own home so she would be forced to live with Flambard? Cut her off from her finances unless she agreed to wed some…some _boy_ who had no notion of who she was or what she wanted?

Bella stared down at the beans and considered flinging them back into the garden for compost. Why did Flambard, or Gandalf, or _anyone_ care whether she married or not?

Bungo hadn’t cared in the slightest, and he was the only one who’d had the right to comment on the subject! She could still remember being carried in a dark red sling as a fauntling, watching as he pointed out a new flower, and listening with huge eyes as he told her very seriously that whatever she did, she should do it with her whole heart and let nothing stop her.

So when the other girls were creating the linens and baby clothes for their glory boxes, she and her father were sitting down for supper with Bounders and learning how to make a proper campfire. When the Baggins girls were combing each other’s hair, Bella had been learning how to set a snare, and track a rabbit, and how to tell which way north was by looking at the stars.

And when the other girls had started courting, Bella had been sitting by her father’s bedside, promising him to have at least one grand adventure before she married, listening to his chest rattle from the cough that had settled in his lungs during the Fell Winter and never left.

And she had promised. She had _promised_ and she wasn’t going to break her vow because someone else thought she wasn’t living her life according to _their_ ideals.

Bella blinked back tears and she shook her head firmly. She was so foolish. Five years now and what had she done to keep her word? _Nothing._ The two packs and bedrolls they used to keep by the door had been tucked away in a guest room the moment she’d come home from burying her father; she’d never taken them out again. The idea of hiking or camping without him had hurt too much to think about.

“Well, you’d better be thinking of it now,” she muttered fiercely, her hands going through the motions of preparing the beans again. She didn’t regret the time with her Took relatives, but why was she staying at Bag End when she was so _miserable_ here? Most of the time, she felt that if she had to stay one more day, she was going to snap and throw her market basket at someone’s head.

The thought of leaving, all by herself, made her chest cold and trembly, but…

She looked down at the beans in her hands, swallowing. Who was she fooling, getting ready to have the Thain over as though his mind wouldn’t be made up already? Did she think that a few beans were going to stop this? Gandalf would persuade Flambard to see things his way, even if he had to terrify him into it with his shadows and thunder. She might not understand why the big man cared, or how he could wield whatever strange power he seemed to have, but she was certain he was going to use it against Flambard, if he had to.

And as much as she would like to deny it, Flambard had to power to force her to marry anyone he wished.

She had no control of her property or her money. Tooks wouldn’t go against the head of the clan if she tried to go to them for help, she was too young – and too female – to become a bounder, and her reputation as ‘odd’ would keep her from getting employment most places in the Shire.

But she still had most of her month’s allowance left. And her old pack of supplies. And her cloak. And everything her father had taught her.

She took a deep breath, setting aside the beans one last time and staring out of the yard. Looking over the green fields of the Shire to the forest beyond, something that had been shivering in her belly since Gandalf left finally began to settle.

“Best face it, Bella, you have but two choices. You can do what you’re told and stay…or you can keep your promise to your father and leave.”

When she thought of it like that, it really wasn’t much of a choice at all, was it? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First…thank you ya’ll for your kudos and bookmarks. I’m really touched!
> 
> As usual, I’ve got a few quotes from the Hobbit butchered here and there, and I’m so, so sorry for all you lovers of Gandalf, because I know he’s acting like a bit of a dick. For reasons. Although Gandalf really is the Magical Pretentious Oxford Professor of Middle Earth, so sometimes he is a bit of a dick anyway.
> 
> Re: hobbits and aging. I’m aware that the age of hobbit majority is thirty-three, but Tolkien implies hobbits are physically mature after childhood, so NOT children in their tweens, and coming of age at 33 is when they can do things like inherit property. I’ve chosen to interpret that as ‘adult’ in their tweens. So Bella marrying in her tweens isn’t, you know, like 13 year old bride kind of stuff.
> 
> Re: hobbits and reputation. My mother grew up in a village very much like Hobbiton; replace the hobbit holes with thatch-roof houses and you’ve pretty much got the right picture. Growing up with her stories of village life, there were a few things that I remember vividly, one being that in villages where reputations actually matter (like those in the Shire, as we’re told by Tolkien), it can be hellishly stifling and isolating if you do not fit in.
> 
> The minutae of your daily life is kept track of and gossiped about to a degree that seems insane to most people. And everything you’ve ever done is remembered decades later as though it’s still relevant to who you have become. For someone with a bad reputation, it’s pretty much like unending highschool where you’re the most unpopular kid in school ‘til the day you die. 
> 
> Oh, and I couldn’t resist putting bollockwort in. The real one isn’t nearly as poisonous, called ballockwort in middle English (yeah, that’s bollocks root, or testicle root, in modern terms). It’s the old term for orchids, which you will never look at the same again now, eh? If you look at a picture of one, you’ll see where it got the name.  
> https://greattriad.files.wordpress.com/2013/01/pic-of-orchid-root.jpg


	3. A Little Respect Would be Appreciated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: again, it's all Tolkien's, nothing of mine. 
> 
> Frerin is having a hard time as Regent, Flambard is having a hard time dealing with Gandalf, and Bella is having a hard time on her adventure.

_TA 2912_

_Erebor_

Frerin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, wondered if the Prince Regent’s chambers would ever feel like they truly belonged to him. He rather hoped not. He didn’t wish to be Regent; accepting the room seemed a step in the wrong direction, as far as he was concerned. The best thing that could happen for the Kingdom, and for Frerin, was for Thorin to return to the mountain and wear the crown. Frerin would go back to his old rooms and celebrate for the rest of his hopefully long life if he never had to shoulder this level of responsibility ever again.

Although they _were_ very nice rooms. The bathing area was a separate chamber, with an enormous tub of pale marble, carved frescos along the edges. Shelves of ebony held mint soap and oils for his hair, along with plush blue towels, and the entire room was lit by silver and crystal lanterns. The sleeping and sitting areas were combined into one large space, the floors covered in various rugs, more carved frescos on the walls, and the same lanterns keeping it as bright as the outdoors, if Frerin wished.

The one thing Frerin would change was the furniture. It was made of ebony as well, heavy pieces decorated with deep blue velvets and brocades. And they reminded him entirely too much of his brother. The patterns of the wood grain looked exactly like the waves in Thorin’s hair, and the furniture, it…brooded. Frerin sometimes woke in the middle of the night with the feeling that his furniture was going to start lecturing him in Thorin’s voice at any moment.

The silver accents were the lightest touches, gilt added to corners and in artistic designs along the tops of the walls, and they made Frerin think of his brother even more. They used to be red and gold, the official colors of the royal family of Durin’s line. Frerin couldn't remember a day in his childhood where he wasn’t in a room surrounded by gold accents and red tunics.

Thorin had changed their colors to blue and silver after Azanulbizar. He claimed that it was to honor those who had fallen in battle, the Royal family’s mourning of such a great loss to their people. Frerin suspected that Thorin simply couldn’t stand the constant reminders of their father’s madness. Mahal knew Frerin still sometimes shuddered when he was confronted with too much gold in one place.

Perhaps this room, that made him feel so close to Thorin, was the reason that he noticed all he, himself, lacked in comparison. Like authority. He felt a distinct lack in that area. Nobles talked down to him. Guild Masters talked over him. And his family? His family treated him as they always did, at least in private, and it in no way made him feel princely at all.

It was not fair in the slightest.

As Prince Regent Under the Mountain, shouldn’t he get _some_ perks? Like solitude. Frerin would love some time alone, even if he only used it to contemplate the lint in his navel. Shouldn’t the Prince Regent _at least_ have the power to demand privacy when he wished? Like for a fitting? That wasn’t too much to ask. Simple privacy while being fitted for new garments, to avoid standing in front of his entire family with his hairy legs bared for all to see.

That should be a Regent’s _right:_ privacy for him and his smallclothes.

Unfortunately, his sister didn’t agree.

From their presence in his room, leaning against the far wall near the door, neither did Balin or Dwalin.

Or almost every other member of the Durin line who lived in _Erebor,_ as far as Frerin could tell. Kíli and Fíli wrestled with each other on the bed, fouling the sheets with their boots. Nori paced over the rug decorated with scenes of Mahal at his forge – thank the Stone that it was the _real_ Nori now. The false one had always given Frerin the crawlies.  

Óin sat in one of the armchairs, yawning, while Glóin stood beside him, nervously stroking his beard.

Dori was there, too, but he was _supposed_ to be in Frerin’s chambers as he was the one doing the fitting!

Thorin never would have had to put up with this.

Frerin frowned, evaluating Dís seated next to the bed as she calmly sipped her tea, her blond braids shining. When she raised an eyebrow at him, he shook his head. No, even against Dís, Thorin would have done better…sometimes. But, but so what? It had been seven years now and Thorin wasn’t _here._ Rather than continue bemoaning what wasn’t, Frerin would do better to focus on the current moment.

The humiliating, frustrating, irritating moment, where he was standing in the middle of the floor without trousers, arms out like a tree, ringed by relatives. Frerin humphed, slouching, and yelped as a pin jabbed him.

“Apologies,” Dori murmured, kneeling at feet as he continued to pin the hem for Frerin’s newest tunic.

Fíli and Kíli, their hair now a matching set of tangles in blond and black, snickered. Why was he not surprised that they would stop fighting at the chance to mock their uncle? If Balin had been next to them, he likely would have given them each a good swat to the head. Dís,the traitor, merely chuckled along with them.

Frerin glared at them all, to no effect. “I do not need a new set of clothing every time we need to talk,” he said, waving his arms toward his newest wardrobe, one of _five_ now.

“Of course you don’t,” Dís said sweetly. “Humiliating you while we work through the details is simply a bonus.”

Frerin did not appreciate Dwalin’s not-so-muffled snort at that. Dwalin still remembered far too many of Frerin’s childhood tantrums to be intimidated by his temporary crown. Frerin humphed again, managing not to move his shoulders this time. “Can we get on with this? Before I freeze off something vital?”

‘It'll fall off from lack of use, first,’ Dwalin flashed in Iglishmek, to the side where Dís couldn’t see, and Frerin flicked him an obscene gesture back that set Fíli and Kíli off laughing again.

Balin cleared his throat. “If you’re quite through? I believe we should allow Glóin to speak first.”

Glóin shuffled his feet as every eye turned to him. He hadn’t been included in ‘The Fantastic Fittings of Frerin,’ as Fíli and Kíli insisted on calling them, until today. They’d discussed bringing him into the circle, but he’d preempted them all when he’d come to Dwalin with concerns that he was too worried to speak of elsewhere.

Balin had promptly invited him for tea, and now here they both were, in the Prince Regent’s bedroom, courtesy of the secret tunnels that ran all through the mountain.

Frerin was still irritated that Thorin had never _told_ him there were secret tunnels! They were genuinely impressive, made to resemble natural cracks and crevices in the stone, so cleverly crafted that even those with stone sense couldn’t tell that they were created rather than natural. And all this time, Frerin could have _used_ them and snuck into Thorin’s rooms to torment him, as a proper younger brother should. Truly unfair that the knowledge had come only after Thorin left the Mountain. Frerin _still_ didn’t know many of them, only the few that Balin had knowledge of, but there was at least one that went from Frerin’s room to Thorin’s.

It needed to be used to play some legendary pranks, especially since Thorin had abandoned them all and deserved a bit of payback. Thorin and he were going to have _words…_ as soon as they could find him and drag his contrary, stubborn arse back to Erebor, likely after they’d beaten some sense into his thick head.

He was going to-

Frerin saw the questioning quirk of Dìs’s eyebrow and gave her a quick negative flick of his fingers. Nothing wrong except dark thoughts of absent brothers. And the ever-present worry that something would happen to Thorin before they found him. Patrols and caravans were encountering orcs more frequently, now, in places that should have been safe. If Thorin ran afoul of them, on his own as the idiot was likely to be, what chance would he have?

Frerin closed his eyes. He couldn’t think like that. They’d find Thorin, safe and sound, and life would go back to normal, or at least what passed for normal these days. Which now included secret meetings in his chambers where everyone had to take various hidden passages to get there. Those Frerin now trusted included almost no one outside this room, and not all of those present were known to be close to the royal family. The ridiculous level of secrecy had been adopted in an attempt to keep some of their involvement unknown for as long as possible.

Thorin had better appreciate this.

Opening his eyes again, Frerin caught his sister either having a small seizure or trying to gesture at him with her head. He finally realized what she was trying to say when he caught Glóin eyeing him uncomfortably. “It’s all right, Glóin. You may speak freely,” Frerin said.

That would never feel right. Years at this, now, and Frerin still felt like an imposter. _Granting_ someone permission to speak, for Mahal’s sake!

Thorin had made it look so easy. He’d always kept that air of gravitas about him when talking to others. Except the Elves, of course, but maintaining a calm demeanor in the face of Elvish superiority was really too much to ask of anyone.

Frerin swore silently as he realized he’d already missed some of what Glóin had said.

“…and someone’s stealing part of the payments. I don’t know how they’re doin’ it, but the gold’s missing.”

Nori kept pacing, ignoring Dwalin’s scowl chasing him across the rug.

“You sure the money’s not missin’ on our end?” Nori asked. “No miscountin’ by the clerks, skimmin’ a bit off the top?”

Glóin looked at Balin as though confirming that he should answer Nori.

“It’s all right,” Balin said. “Nori has been helping us with these problems. You may trust him.”

“Right.” Glóin nodded, yanking firmly once at his beard, clearly frustrated.  “It’s not one of ours taking the gold, not that I can tell. For the last five months I’ve counted the payments myself _and_ walked them to Erebor’s gates. Clerks I trust implicitly walked with the guards down to Dale, and they stayed to witness Dale’s bankers recount it. Sometimes the payment is fine, but maybe once every couple of months it’s short by ten gold or more. Ten gold, out of a locked box surrounded by guards the entire time. I didn’t believe King Bard’s men on the matter before, but I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

“What o’ the elves?” Nori asked.

Glóin spat on the floor. “Who knows, with those tree shaggers.”

“Guess, then.” Dwalin crossed his arms and Glóin collected himself visibly, running a nervous hand down his bead.

“If I had to guess…likely the same. They’ve been complaining of being shorted on payment for years now. We’ve had to pay the difference they claimed missing, if we wanted to continue trading with them at all, but it’s been a strain on everyone’s tempers. Lately…”

Frerin’s scowl matched everyone’s.

Lately, the Men looked on the dwarrows as greedy oathbreakers. The supplies of food they were willing to provide in trade had been dwindling steadily.

Lately, the Elves, may their braids be singed off their scalps by dragon’s fire, treated the dwarrows with even more contempt than ever. More than one Elven archer had ‘accidentally’ shot at a dwarf near the fringes of Mirkwood.

Lately, Frerin’s people had just as low an opinion of outsiders. The Nobles fought against terms of Erebor’s alliances with Man and Elf as though they were mere whims of Thorin’s childhood. Guild Masters and merchants complained about poor prices for their crafted items, and poor quality goods received in return. Their people suffered, paying high prices for limited food. _All_ of them blamed the Elves, or the Men, or both.

There was talk of blaming the line of Durin as well.

Glóin glanced around at each of them, noting that even Kíli and Fíli looked worried. “I’m guessing there’s more to this,” he said quietly.

Óin nodded. “It’s why I said you should go have a word with Dwalin, brother.”

Frerin gestured to Nori. The Spymaster would likely have new information for them anyway, might as well speak of it now.

“The missin’ money fits into a pattern that’s been goin’ on for a while. Not even sure how long, yet. Only noticin’ it now because it’s been gettin’ worse. Might not’ve seen it otherwise.”

“Don’t discount your own contribution, Nori,” Dís said quietly.

“Contribution to his reputation for thievery, maybe,” Dori muttered under his breath. He was lucky Dís didn’t seem to have heard.

She simply continued on, looking fondly at Nori. “The family has been much more focused on finding Thorin’s miserable hide and looking for threats outside our gates. We weren’t paying enough attention to inside the Mountain.”

Nori didn’t argue – always a good policy with Dís. “There’s plenty enough bad eggs in both places, I’m thinkin’. Those pieces of orc shit that tried to kill m’brothers and me had outside help. Lot of it, at that.”

“But they were killed by someone here in Erebor,” Dwalin snapped. Frerin knew he was still furious that the little rats had been assassinated before they could be made to give up any conspirators, or _why_ they’d done it.

Nori nodded. “Point. And there _are_ the false papers.”

Dwalin swore. “I told you, it’s a petty crime.”

Nori snapped back. “And I’m tellin’ you, it’s somethin’ more!  Hard enough keepin’ track of who’s here without dwarrows comin’ in and changin’ names! And last week, I found another dwarf that could have been my own brother – killed by the side of the road, dumped in a river, and his papers stolen! Wouldn’t have known but the body got caught up in a snag and found. We received word yesterday from his family, letting his Master know his new apprentice wouldn’t make it. ‘Cept he’s been here two months already.”

“You never told me.” Dwalin cracked his knuckles, smiling grimly. “I need to talk to him-”

“He’s already dead,” Nori growled, turning and pacing across the rug again. “Same as the ones playin’ at bein’ my family. Poisoned at his own table by the time we hunted him down. Some Dwarrows are workin’ hard at gettin’ people in who shouldn’t be, and hidin’ their tracks, and I haven’t a flamin’ clue who they are!” Nori snarled, hands fisted.

“We’ll find them,” Dori said calmly, still on his knees. He looked up at Nori until Nori stopped pacing and stood, taking deep breaths. “They’ll make a mistake. They already did with us, didn’t they?”

Nori huffed a laugh. “Aye, sure did. Never did think I’d be spyin’ for the crown, but someone comes after my own, well…”

Frerin nodded, looking at his nephews, who had finally quieted. Family first. Always. If someone ever tried to harm them, he would bring Mahal’s wrath down on their heads.

Glóin cleared his throat. “Sorry if I don’t understand it all, but…are you thinking that these dwarrows are somehow involved in the thefts?”

“It cannot be a big bleedin’ coincidence that we’re havin’ thefts at the same time as this. But I haven’ a clue what the connection is.  The coins aren’t being used for bribes, far as I can tell. None of the imposters seem to be spendin’ extra coin anywhere we can see. And whate’er is affectin’ our trade, it’s doin’ it _outside_ the walls. We send payment and part o’ it disappears on the road. We trade and the goods are half-ruined on the road.”

“Retaliation for the poor payment?” Glóin asked. Frerin had thought the same, when he first heard of it.

“Be easier if that were it,” Nori said. “It’s somethin’ fouler. Been keepin’ an eye on this like you with your coin. Our goods are fine when they leave Erebor, but by the time they’re delivered, they’re damaged. Metal with rust spots, gems scratched and flawed. Same is happenin’ with goods headed here. Food is half spoiled, wood has dry rot, cloth and paper eaten by insect and mold. Like the coins, it’s only mebbe four, five times a year, but it’s enough to keep a nice, bubblin’ rage goin’ ‘tween us all.”

“And we don’t know who is behind it,” Frerin said wearily.

“Might soon enough,” Nori said. “We’ve got those with stone sense checkin’ for tunnelin’ where there shouldn’t be. Spies in Dale and the Mountain keepin’ a eye out for anythin’ unusual. Checkin’ what papers we can, here, although haven’ found much, even though I would swear by my mother that some are false. Those’re hard to trace, but if I have to, I’ll send out dwarrows to every Hall in Middle Earth to track down every single one of them.”

Dwalin looked unimpressed. “Good plan. Only take a decade. Or three. ”

Nori scowled. “Better than sittin’ with my thumb up my big, tattooed arse. ‘Sides, easier to find something ' outside of Erebor, with those here who are sabotagin’ everythin’ we try to discover. These losses…they’re not natural. There’s some foul magic mixed up in this or I’m a virgin.”

Dori snorted somewhere around Frerin’s backside, pulling on the dark blue velvet as he continued to pin. “ _Definitely_ foul magic, then,” he muttered.

Nori continued as if he didn’t hear him. “If it were all outsiders, there’s no way for them to know when our shipments leave the mountain. We don’ keep it regular. And if it’s a dwarf foulin’ things by normal means – like some o’ the imposters – it’s easier to do the deed inside the mountain. But if it’s magic…”

Frerin and the other adults nodded.

“If it’s magic…what?” Kíli piped up. Fíli and he both watched, quite clearly confused, and Frerin wasn’t surprised to see Balin shake his head.

“Do you _never_ listen to lessons, laddies?”

“We listen,” Fíli protested.

“But we only remember the really interesting bits,” Kíli added.

Balin tilted his chin down before giving them a look guaranteed to make anyone feel like a dwarfling caught in wrongdoing. The boys shifted uncomfortably.

“ _Try_ to recall,” Balin said dryly, and Frerin sighed. Should have known Balin would make this a lesson and not simply _tell_ them. “Remember, Dwarrow’s resistance to magic… and their halls?”

Fíli and Kíli looked at each other and then Fíli nodded. “Dwarrow resistance to magic becomes a part of their halls after they’ve been occupied by their people for long enough,” Fíli said slowly, testing the information through Balin’s expression. “And…no magic can be used inside the mountain?”

Kíli pushed him in the shoulder. “No. Then dwarf magic wouldn’t work either – how would we open the door to throne room? It’s only…bad magic?”

“Magic used actively against the dwarrows of the Hall,” Balin said, nodding. “Although as with anything, a powerful enough magic could work. It would simply take considerable effort.”

Nori nodded. “So if someone’s usin’ magic to mess about with our goods, it’s easier to do it after they’ve left us, or before they get here.”

“But why?” Glóin asked, looking around him at the severe faces around him. He didn’t get together that frequently with the Royal line of Durin himself, but he knew them well enough to know this gravity wasn’t normal, however more somber they’d been in the last few years.

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Nori said. “Although we’ve got a theory…”

“To keep us isolated.” Dwalin’s terse grumble triggered a flood of nods.

Balin put his hand on Glóin’s shoulder. “You know Mirkwood and Dale were close to declaring war on us when Thorin took the crown?” Glóin nodded. Frerin would be surprised if anyone _didn’t_ know. “If they hadn’t come to an agreement when they did, I believe armies would have marched on Erebor within days. Even now, the alliance with both is very weak. Weaker than most know, although we keep that within the family, you understand.”

Glóin gestured a strong ‘yes’ in Iglishmek, looking pale.

“It’s why someone’d want us without allies that’s the troublin’ question,” Nori said, just as softly as Balin. “Even worse, why they’d want us without allies when we’ve dwarrows in here who may be up to no good.”

“Have you found _anything_?” Frerin asked.

“I’m close. My fingers are itching somethin’ fierce.” Nori’s fingers rubbing over each other as though he were trying to flip a nonexistent blade.  “Next time we meet, mebbe. Got my spies lookin’, as I said, and strings to pull in a few places.”

“Hurry,” Balin said. “We don’t need it known that we’re this vulnerable. Bad enough that our King is missing…”

“He’s on a quest, not missin’, Balin,” Nori corrected, grinning sharply as though he hadn’t been angry at all.

“On a great quest with the Arkenstone as his guide,” Fíli added, smirking at his brother.

“To save us all in these dark times,” Kíli finished with mock solemnity.

Frerin rolled his eyes. Yes, that was the story they’d come up with to explain Thorin’s disappearance, with far too many details added by the boys themselves. But the last thing they’d needed was a panicking population. Or worse, one that feared the line of Durin were destined to Gold Madness, as Thorin had mentioned in his ridiculous letters to them all.

Their cover story was so thin it was translucent, but Frerin had been shocked at how easily it was accepted by the populace. He probably shouldn’t have been. Thorin was the shining star of Durin’s line. The hero of Azanulbizar. The King who brought back prosperity and peace to the mountain. Most of Erebor believed Thorin could take on Sauron himself, blind folded and missing an arm.

What was a quest with their most prized relic, compared to that? And if it took nearly a decade, no one but the nobles questioned it. Considering that the only noble Frerin found of use was Dáin, and he wasn’t in the mountain, Frerin was perfectly happy to stick with the lie.

“Not missing, fine. With our King _absent_ , our position is weaker,” Balin said with an irritated sigh. “You make a fine Regent, Frerin, lad, but…”

“I’m no Thorin,” Frerin completed. He wasn’t offended. Being compared to Thorin and coming up short, at least as a leader? It was only truth. He didn’t have the history with Bard and Thranduil that Thorin did, and it showed. Neither of them had even agreed to _meet_ with him in the entire time he’d been Regent.

“We need good relations between us, Dale, and the Elves,” Balin said seriously.

Frerin sighed, wishing longingly for the days when he didn’t have to worry about _any_ of this. “Can’t we make nice with King Bard and continue to cordially hate Thranduil like always?”

Dwalin snorted. “Agreed.”

“If someone feels that relations should be strained between us, that’s enough reason to want the opposite,” Dís said quietly. “With orcs and bandits growing bolder, and some of our own people possibly moving against us in the shadows, we need all the help we can get.”

“We need to repair the damage that’s been done,” Balin added. “But we certainly can’t let Bard or Thranduil know that we are having any sort of internal…conflict. If we don’t solve this soon…”  

"I know. I’m workin’ on it,” Nori snapped.

Dwalin’s face twisted up into a frustrated scowl. Frerin hoped his expression didn’t look as sour, but the pressure of knowing that if they failed, it could ruin the entire _kingdom_ made him break out in a cold sweat. His gut cramped in response and he hoped Dori finished soon so he could run to the garderobe.

Kíli and Fíli exchanged looks again and Kíli spoke up first. “So…what should we do until then?”

Frerin sighed at the cacophony of voices that responded, then yelped again as he was pricked with another pin. This was going to be a very long night.  

 

 

 

_TA 2914 mid-summer_

_The Shire_

 

Flambard Took had never met the gray wizard before today, but he was quickly learning that Gandalf the Gray was absolutely terrifying when he was yelling at a hobbit in his own smial, voice raised and rattling the windows. It had taken mere moments of having shadows reaching for him before Flambard scrambled to send a message to Bella Baggins, arranging a dinner with her so he could discuss her future. That didn’t seem to have placated Gandalf at all though. He’d continued to berate Flambard for hours now!

“…And to find that all this time, she is the only child of Belladonna and I was never informed! Why is she not wed?!”

“B-b-because she doesn’t want to be. And- and why would I inform you of her mother’s death? You never asked me to,” Flambard said. He was beginning to feel quite put upon, being blamed for something he wasn’t aware he was even supposed to do! “You haven’t been to the Shire in years.  You didn’t even meet with me when my father passed the mantle of the Tooks on. _He_ had to tell me what I needed to know, all on his own” Flambard paused as he realized he’d actually _raised his voice to Gandalf._ He looked up at Gandalf fearfully, and was shocked when Gandalf sank into himself.

Sighing, his previous energy suddenly absent, Gandalf sat down on a wide padded chair in the parlor. “You are right, my friend,” he said. “My apologies. I have indeed been away from the Shire for far too long. Far longer than I ever intended, and this disaster is in part my own fault. I should have kept a closer eye on her family.”

Flambard sat down across from him gingerly. Somehow, from all his father’s stories about the amazing Gandalf the Gray, Flambard had never expected him to look so…exhausted. His father had always described Gandalf as a strong, powerful figure, unchanged in all the years he’d known him. The yelling had been terrifying but not surprising. This?

It was almost more frightening.

“Is it…is it truly so bad? I know Bella hasn’t favored any of the lads she’s met, but she’s still young. And the other Tooks are all doing their part. Isn’t that what is required? Having children so we can help…well, help with the…that piece of jewelry we’re all concerned about? However that works...”

Flambard’s father had not been very clear about the entire situation, only that Tooks having children played a role.

“Belladonna’s line has become more important in this endeavor, I’m afraid,” Gandalf murmured. “The only one of importance left, I believe. She _must_ have children, as many as possible. It is too dangerous otherwise.”

“Dangerous?” Flambard asked tentatively. He couldn't see how one small hobbit lass could be that important, let alone _dangerous_.

“If Belladonna’s line ends, it will bring about the ruin of Middle Earth,” Gandalf said solemnly, staring into Flambard’s eyes with his own stormy ones. “We must move to ensure that she has enough children to make that impossible.”

What? “But…but what about the rest of us? Surely we can…we can help, somehow?” Flambard asked. “You always said that the Tooks were _all_ assisting in this. Why does it rest on her shoulders now? She’s only a tween! And none of us have shirked. There are more Tooks than any other family!”

Gandalf looked away, getting out his pipe and packing it with leaves from a small pouch at his waist, avoiding Flambard’s gaze.  “You have been more than helpful, and you have all done a marvelous job. But even the most well laid plans may sometimes be thwarted, no matter how well tended. The Tooks’ part in this is now complete, all except Bella’s. She is the last left with a task to finish, and she _must_ do this, or it will all be for naught,” he said, staring into the hearth fire. He put the pipe into his mouth without lighting it.

Flambard stared at him blankly. “But why? I don’t understand.”

“You know enough to play your part, Flambard Took,” Gandalf said shortly, and Flambard pulled back, intimidated again. “You must move to ensure Belladonna Took marries, soon.”

“Why do we not simply tell her about the Tooks, and having babies, and the…the…”

“No.” Gandalf took a puff from his pipe, somehow lit and smoking. “That would not be advisable. A hobbit as young as she? She has her mother’s spirit, but she is still a child, and children do not react well to such pressures.”

Flambard could not help but think there was something wrong with that, but he wasn’t sure how to say such things.

Puffing again, Gandalf paused a moment to add, “She cannot travel.”

“But…”

“Not even to Bree. She _must_ stay within the Shire or Buckland. She is hidden from the Enemy’s sight here, but if she leaves, she would be hunted.”

“Hunted?” Flambard said faintly.

Gandalf cast him a look. “The world outside the Shire grows darker every day, Flambard. Bandits grow bold, the races lose trust in each other, and orcs roam the wilds from Ered Luin to the Iron Hills, and they are searching for _her._ ”

“What…what in the world could Bella have that an orc would want?!”

“The power to bring their master back as powerful as he ever was,” Gandalf said darkly. He stood up, nodding shortly. “I must speak with the Master of Buckland now, if you’ll excuse me. I will meet you at Belladonna’s in two days.”

Flambard watched as Gandalf left the house, ducking through the door. Their master? Who was master of an orc? Flambard didn’t understand, and he didn’t _want_ to force Bella to marry. It didn’t feel right; it _wasn’t_ right. She _was_ wasting away, alone and sad at Bag End with no one to care for her. He knew those Bagginses near her were not treating her well, sourpusses that they were. She would be happier if she had someone in her life, if she would only _try_ and meet someone rather than hiding at home.

He wanted what was best for her, but…he wanted her to choose it herself. Except if Gandalf was right, they had no choice if they wanted to keep, to keep _everyone_ safe. He couldn’t wrap his head around something that huge, their Bella’s life given to save everyone else’s. It was too much.

He was still quiet, his thoughts running in circles like a mill wheel, when his wife, Jessamine, came back from tea at Donnamira’s and asked why he was standing about like a lump rather than helping her prepare supper. Swallowing his worries, Flambard pulled out some potatoes to peel, and wondered if his young cousin could possibly be as important as Gandalf seemed to think.

 

 

_TA 2914 mid-summer_

_The Shire_

 

Bella knew she must get to Bree as quickly as she could, before anyone realized she’d left, and she set her pace at a brisk walk, just short of running. It didn't last long. The Shire seemed to pull at her, trying to draw her back. Every time she passed a home, or a fence, she though, 'this was the last time I'll see this, for months!'  It was terrifying. It was exciting. And it was very, very confusing. The grass seemed greener, the flowers more vivid. The smells of sausages and baking bread in the air reminded her of all the meals she would miss, now, and how she couldn’t dare stop for an early supper if she wanted to get far enough along to make it to Bree within the week.

The air itself felt sizzling with tension, on the verge of a thunderstorm even though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

But she was going on this adventure, no matter what, and nothing was going to stop her. Thinking of how happy her da would be, seeing her like this, was enough to keep her enthusiasm going for the first hour, but after that her excitement began to lag. Her wood-frame pack was much heavier than she’d expected. She had forgotten how much of her usual camping supplies had been carried by her da when they’d travelled together. As it stood, her pack bulged with supplies and the weight had it cutting into her shoulders. She had to stop finally under the shade of some willows and sacrifice one of the nice blouses she’d brought to wear in Rivendell, wrapping strips of it around the straps to try and save her skin from abrasions.

And then she began to encounter people. The first few miles, the lanes had been free of traffic, but the further she went, the more people she began to see, and she couldn’t let them see _her._ She was forced to stop frequently to avoid them, her pack digging in to her skin as she dashed off the road.

She was never so thankful for being a Took. Hearing cart wheels, or the pad of feet, or the murmur of voices, Bella ducked to the side of the road, focusing as hard as she could for them _not_ to see her.

Her cousins often told her how it felt for them. Someone would come to the door and they would push against a wall, closing their eyes, and become fainter, less ‘there,’ and easier to miss in the shadowed interior of their homes. It wasn’t hard, simply letting your thoughts go blank, and didn’t work well in the sunlight, but it _was_ useful.

Bella’s Took magic worked a little differently. She could disappear whether in darkness or full sun, but her magic felt fierce, barely under her control, like an angry dog trying to turn and bite her when she let it off the leash. There was no gentleness involved at all.

She had to watch, and she always prayed to Yavanna the entire time. ‘Please don’t let them see me.’ She was certain, somehow, that if she lost focus for even a moment, the magic would slip from her fingers, exposing her, and likely laughing at her for getting caught. If magic were sentient and likely to laugh, which was surely her imagination. None of her relatives ever understood what she meant when she mentioned it, at least.

But the farther she went, the more nervous she became. It seemed to her that there were more people than there should be. Bounders travelled the road, sometimes passing her more than once going different directions. She even noticed three Rangers sitting by the side of the road, watching it, and she’d had to pray to stay unseen for over an hour until they’d left and she could continue on.

Every night, she camped by the side of the road, hidden behind a few trees with no fire, eating cold cuts and stale scones and cheese. And each new morning, her back twitched more at every sound, sure that someone had already been sent after her, or word had been sent to stop her and take her back to Flambard and that horrible Gandalf.

Perhaps it had, but none found her. And finally, one week after she left Bag End, she finally camped close enough to Bree to see the low haze above it from the chimney smoke, surprised when she realized she’d be eating the last of her food in the morning before she would arrive.

She hadn’t thought how quickly the food would be used up when she wasn’t fishing or gathering supplies. It had been heavy enough to pack as much as she had! She couldn’t carry all the food she’d need for Rivendell, not by herself. It would take at least a month to get there, she was sure. Likely there would be the odd village along the way where she could purchase fresh eggs, or resupply, but even then…

She was going to need a pony to carry her supplies.

Bree, when she arrived, was a complete and utter disappointment. She’d thought it would be, well, she didn’t know what, exactly. Exciting, perhaps, to spend time in her first town outside of the Shire, with so much going on. Caravans travelling through, merchants with goods from every race, markets with people from all over Eriador. Although only Men, and the odd hobbit, would be found there. No Elves, they stuck to their woods, and no dwarves, either. The Rangers and the dwarves didn’t seem to get along, for some reason, and she’d heard that they discouraged the bearded folk from coming round.

It was a shame. Bella would have liked to meet another race that wasn’t completely oversized. But still, with so much that Bella had never seen before, she’d been sure it would be simply amazing.

It hadn’t worked out that way. Her room at the Prancing Pony was small, and dingy, and cost far too much. The vegetables served there had been soggy and overcooked, the meat nearly raw. And when she went into the streets to try and find a pony for sale, she was either ignored so thoroughly she was nearly bowled over, or she was stared at with an intensity that she found quite disturbing. More than once, she stepped to the side of a building and prayed quickly for no one to see her, as a man or two walked by, looking for her for reasons she did _not_ wish to know of.

And then the pony itself. It took her two days to find one she could afford, fretting over the time lost and Flambard possibly coming to fetch her. And even after the long search, it was quite expensive. Bella spent every last cent she had purchasing the little piebald.  Far more than it was worth, in her opinion, but she had little choice, and at least they threw in a small, ragged set of packs to go over its back for no charge.

With her pony settled in the stables and no coin left, Bella had gone through her pack with more ruthlessness than she had first packed it with. She’d taken out her two sets of fancy clothes, her bonnet, and her nice hairbrush and brought them to market to sell. A seamstress took the garments for the cloth and embroidery thread, a woman purchased the bonnet for her little girl, and a man selling fripperies took the brush.

It gave her enough to pay for one more night at the Prancing Pony for herself and food and board for her pony, as well as enough to buy food that would last her until she reached Rivendell. She bought a small sack of travel bread, filled with fat and dried fruits. The flavor was terrible, but the man assured her it would keep for months. Then there were two sacks of potatoes, two sack of oats, and a bag of apples to go along with it. It wasn’t going to be as much food as she was used to, but it would do for the journey there, with a little foraging along the way.

In the morning, she had to load her pony herself because she couldn’t even get the ostler’s attention, was nearly knocked into the discarded manure from the stables by two large men saddling their horses, and she thanked Yavanna when she made it out of Bree with no more incidents than enduring such general unpleasantness from the residents.

Big folk were, clearly, much more rude than the average hobbit, at least in action. For all that Bella had been ignored or gossiped about in the Shire, at least she’d never been knocked to the side by those rushing about.

But it was done. She was on her way. Walking besides her fully laden pony, leading him by the reins as she travelled on the East road and toward Rivendell, Bella felt like she could take a deep breath for the first time in ages.

She was really doing this. She had made it past Bree, and neither Flambard nor Gandalf had stopped her.

She was going on her adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your kudos and comments. Makes me smile and definitely is motivating for me to keep going. As usual, this is still a bit rough as I try to get through it as quickly as I can for the Big Bang, but hey, it's all for fun anyway, right? 
> 
> \- Dwarf magic. I'm going with the concept of dwarves having magic, as would go with having magic doors that open to special passwords or at certain times of the year and so on. I know that in the stories they're more resistant to evil and Sauron's control, but I'm just interpreting that here as being resistant to magic/magical power in general. Just because.
> 
> \- For those who are like me, I had not read the book in so long that I was surprised how far Bree actually IS from the Bag End. Over 100 miles, so it takes a few days to get there. It's over 900 miles to walk from Bag End to the Lonely Mountain. 0.0 For anybody curious about this sort of thing and, like myself, completely ignorant of it, there's a great Atlas of Middle Earth that gives a lot of the distances. And there is also this, just for fun - walking for exercise and measuring your distance against how far the hobbits went. Has some good information there on the distances in general (with references from the Atlas): http://home.insightbb.com/~eowynchallenge/Walk/walk.html
> 
> \- And yeah, Tooks have a bit of magic, which will be explained a bit more as this goes along. And when you meet more Tooks, for which I apologize ahead of time, because there will be far too many.


	4. Dwarves and Hobbits...and more Hobbits...and more Hobbits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: All based on fun fiction of Tolkien's, all of it.
> 
> Time to meet some more dwarves and hobbits.

_TA 2913 Fall_

_Erebor_

 

Dwalin stomped up the long staircase to the aviary while cursing Nori under his breath. He didn’t know _how_ Nori had won that bet – how could he _possibly_ know that Dís would sneeze right as Lord Furin walked by? – but now Dwalin was stuck sending ravens for Nori whenever he asked, for the next two months. Nori was sure to make it a right pain in the arse.

Although Dwalin thought Nori only made the bet so he could avoid Dori, who insisted on coming along Every. Single. Time. It was enough to drive Dwalin to drink.

He looked up at the sound of footsteps above them and snorted in disgust. Two short, dark haired dwarrows were coming down; Dori smiled and returned the small nods he was given. Dwalin ignored them.

Thekk and Bruni had come to Erebor when Thorin desperately needed skilled craftsmen to make up for those they’d lost, but Dwalin could never bring himself to trust them. If these twowere involved in all the recent troubles, Dwalin would not be surprised at all. Blacklocks were hardly worth the time it would take to toss them out of the mountain.

Dwalin climbed the rest of the way without glancing behind him, but he listened for the slightest sound of Thekk or Bruni sneaking back up, just in case. A knife in the back would be a humiliating way to die.

The top of the narrow stairs opened up into a perfectly round room, all polished granite, with niches for raven’s nests along the walls and openings above for them to come and go. A lot of work for something that was always covered in bird shite, he’d always thought. A few dwarves were sending ravens of their own and Dwalin noted them automatically, and then smiled.

“Nyrath, you stunted ale thief.”

The tall dwarf with fire red hair and a beard nearly as elaborately braided as Nori’s turned and barked out a laugh when he saw Dwalin. “Dwalin! You get balder every time I see you.”

Dwalin smacked him on the back hard enough to make him stumble. “And you shorter.”

Nyrath coughed and elbowed him back, grinning. Dwalin had known the lad since he was a wee dwarfling, Frerin’s best friend since the two could toddle. “What are you doing up here? Sending letters to keep your wife’s mother away?”

Nyrath moaned. “If only life were that simple. No, she’s determined to plague us again. I’m making certain there’s a caravan coming at the right time to bring her from the Iron Hills.”

“Sad day if there wasn’t,” Dwalin said dryly.

“For me,” Nyrath grumbled. “Agda would make me go fetch her mother myself if that was the only way.”

Dwalin could see her do it, too. Agda was a fierce one. “Balin and I are going up for supper tomorrow with Frerin. You and Agda should come.”

Nyrath squirmed and Dwalin frowned at him. They hadn’t seen as much of the dwarf since Frerin was named regent, and Dwalin thought it was bad for both of them. Frerin needed someone willing to tease him out of his fretting. Dwalin couldn’t get over the urge to slap Frerin upside the head whenever the lad whined.

“Dwalin, I don’t know if that…”

“Come. If you don’t, I’m coming down there and dragging you through the halls by your scraggly excuse for a beard. Agda would thank me for it.”

Nyrath scowled at him. Dwalin crossed his arms over his chest, glaring. Nyrath copied him, still scowling, then gave up with a laugh. “All right, all right, you old grump, I’ll tell her. She’s been urging me to do that for an age now, anyway. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Dwalin slapped him on the back again, hard enough to hurt this time. “See that you do.”

Dwalin turned to get his raven and nearly bowled over Dori.

“We haven’t been introduced, I don’t believe?” Dori said quietly, looking at Nyrath.

Had it really been that many years since Nyrath had come by?

“Nyrath, at your service,” Nyrath said quickly.

“Dori, at yours and your family’s. I’ve heard much about you. It’s nice to have a face to put with the name.” Dori turned to look at Dwalin with a question in his eyes.

“Been a bit of a coward since the Frerin became Regent. No one sees hide nor hair of him.”

“I’m no coward!” Nyrath said, the pitch of his voice going up enough to make Dwalin grin.

“Show up tomorrow and prove it.”

Nyrath grumbled under his breath as he turned away and Dwalin was left with two more dwarves in front of him, Dori looking on as usual. At least these ones, Dori already knew. Dwalin sighed and nodded at them curtly. “Bifur, Lofar.”

Lofar nodded and Bifur gave him a brief hello in Iglishmek. Dwalin didn’t know either one well, but he could at least respect them. They’d both saved Frerin’s life at Azanulbizar; that went a long way with Dwalin. Bifur had taken an axe to the head doing so, and Lofar had been half-crippled, his leg broken in a way that had never healed straight. 

“Keeping Nyrath company?” Dori asked politely.

Bifur shook his head as he signed about his cousins, and invitations to settle in Erebor.

“From Ered Luin?” Dwalin asked.  He thought he remembered they were simple folk, like Bifur before he’d been rewarded for his sacrifice by the crown. “Soon?”

‘Over a year,’ Bifur signed, grinning.  Dwalin grunted back. Bifur wasn’t simple, but…he wasn’t all there, anymore. The dwarf could often be found wandering, confused. The mines, the gate, the walls, someone’s residence – if Thorin hadn’t let it be known that Bifur was considered protected by the Royal family, he’d likely have been hurt by now with all the places he ended up.

As it was, all in Erebor knew to direct the dwarf back to the toy shop that he now owned up in the First Market, or to find Lofar to come fetch him. One was rarely found without the other, these days.

Dwalin hoped that if the same ever happened to him, Thorin would let him ‘accidentally’ walk off the edge of a mineshaft and spare him this kind of half-life. Losing a limb or an eye was one thing, a dwarf could survive and push through the pain of that, but losing part of your mind? Losing who you _were?_ Dwalin could think of nothing worse.

He turned, and Lofar spoke before Dwalin could. “Family for me as well. My brother in the Iron Hills has been thinking of settling here.”

“What’s his craft?”

Lofar shrugged, his gray beard reflecting the light so it looked like slate. “Masonry. I keep telling him Erebor and Dale have enough masons as it is and he’d do better to stay there, but he’s as stubborn as Nyrath’s wife.”

Dwalin nodded, thinking. “I‘ll speak to Frerin about it. He can talk to the Mason’s Guild. We’ll find a spot.”

Lofar shook his head. “You needn’t.”

“It’s nothing. You looked after one of our own, least we can do is help you with yours. I’ll speak to him.”

Lofar slowly nodded, smiling, and turned back to the raven he’d been attaching a note to. “I’d better change my letter then, before I send it off.”

“Do that.”

Waving off Bifur, Dwalin waited until Lofar had finished and left as well before he got out his small letter to send to Dale. The last one, hand delivered by Ori, had been essentially ignored, but they had to find some way to talk with King Bard if they wanted to keep the alliance intact, or at least their trade for food and supplies. They were all hoping this last raven would do the trick. These ravens might not speak like the Ravens of Erebor, but they were intelligent enough to carry letters to most cities. A physical letter, without a dwarf or human standing nearby, sometimes gave a man time to think before reacting. That was Balin’s opinion, anyway.

“Do Bifur and Lofar often keep company?” Dori asked, waiting for Dwalin quietly, his hands crossed across his stomach.

“Lofar probably spends more time at Bifur’s than his own home. They grew close after they saved Nyrath. Convalesced in the same tent, so I suppose it was that or kill each other.”

“Have we met their families?” Dwalin never could understand how the dwarf could look so calm at times like this, and scream like a dying orc when he had to talk to Nori.

No, wait, he could completely understand someone screaming like an orc when they had to speak to Nori.

Dwalin cleared his throat, irritated just thinking of the red-headed thief. “Nay, none of them have come to Erebor before. That’ll be changing soon enough. Heard stories of them, at least.” Bifur, when he got going, couldn’t stop talking about his cousins; he gabbled nearly as much as Glóin spoke of his wife.

Dwalin grumbled, finally attaching the message, and sent the raven aloft.

“Tonight?” Dwalin asked, as they turned to go.

“Yes, Frerin has another fitting. I though I might invite Ori to come this time, see if I can interest him in taking up my craft instead of scribing.”

“Good luck with that,” Dwalin said, keeping up the pretense in case any listened. He didn't bother to speak again as they left.

 

 

  _TA 2914, mid-summer_

_The Shire_

When Flambard and Gandalf arrived at Bag End and discovered an empty smial, along with the note inside stating that Bella was leaving the Shire and going on an adventure, they’d both been stunned. Gandalf had started muttering under his breath in a language Flambard had never heard of, and then continued with more volume in yet another one. Flambard would have thought he was cursing, but he suspected the wizard would never lose his composure that much, even if the world were ending.

They had no idea which direction Bella had gone, or even when. She could have left minutes after Gandalf had, for all they knew. With Bella, Flambard wouldn’t be surprised if she had.

He should never have let Gandalf talk him into this. Flambard had known Bella her entire life; Gandalf had known her all of a day. Of the two of them, Flambard was the one who should have decided what she could and couldn’t adjust to. Looking at her empty smial, he was filled with the bitter knowledge that he should have _told_ Bella what was going on.

But he hadn’t, and now they were left with Bella out on her own, with no protection and no idea that she even needed it! If only he hadn’t been such a coward, to let himself be persuaded to push her so. Flambard sat down in one of Bella’s chairs as Gandalf continued to pace, inhaling the delicate scent of lavender that rose from the cushion, and wished with all his heart that they could find her before she got to far. He would apologize, and then he would tell her everything.

She would still need to have children; he didn’t think they could avoid it, not if events were as dire as Gandalf implied. But she would _understand_ , and he and the other Tooks could all help her instead of pushing her into it like…like some recalcitrant mare put out to be bred.

If only they could _find_ her.

Gandalf stopped in front of his chair, silent until Flambard looked up.

“We shouldn’t have treated her like this,” Flambard said. His voice shook, confronting the wizard, but he said it.

Gandalf nodded shortly. “Whether we should have or not, I cannot change the past. And if we are to save her, we must move quickly, Flambard,” he said. 

“What do we do?” Flambard had helped organize searches many times, but always before it was for a child, or a lost tween, someone who _wanted_ to be found.

Gandalf began to speak quickly, relaying instructions. Bounders. Rangers. Tooks, as many as he could gather. And if Bella wasn’t found before she left the Shire…what Gandalf wanted from them made him nauseous with dread.

Gandalf’s staff pounded on the floor with a sharp crack as he turned from Flambard. “If she cannot be found, I must seek the White Wizard’s council. He is wise and more knowledgeable than I in many matters; he may know of a ritual that can help us in our search. I will inform the Rangers to aid you, if that should come to pass.” Gandalf grabbed both Flambard’s shoulders fiercely. “Move swiftly. Time grows short, and that foolish girl has thrown herself into a danger she has no understanding of. We _must_ find her.”

Flambard watched Gandalf yank open the door and stride quickly through the yard and out the gate. He stood himself, tucking Bella’s letter into his pocket and carefully closing the door behind him. He spoke briefly with the Hobbits he saw as he left, but none recalled seeing Bella leave. There truly was no way to tell how long she’d been gone.

Striding through one of the fields that cut across the more winding lanes, the wind keeping the crops shushing loudly around him, Flambard sent a quick prayer to Yavanna that their Bella would be protected and safe, until she was found.

He also chewed on Gandalf’s last words. How could he call Bella foolish for not understanding the danger, when he’d been the one to insist on keeping that knowledge from her? How was she supposed to know anything other than that her family was forcing her into a situation that she had, quite clearly, found intolerable? Gandalf might be a wizard, and he might know more than Flambard about…about orcs and magic and the races of Middle Earth, but he did not seem to understand Bella.

Flambard needed to remember that, when they had her back. He was supposed to be her guardian, wasn’t he? He should have done a better job of it.

It took him the rest of the afternoon to walk home, arriving after nightfall, hungry and exhausted. He lost no time in sending a few of the neighbor lads with word to the Bounders to search for Bella – the tweens were all quite excited when they were allowed to use his three ponies for the job. He sent a few more lads to spread the word that all able-bodied Tooks were to gather on the Northern Green in Buckland, in two days.

And the next day, directly after breakfast, he started on another of Gandalf’s instructions.

“Could you ask Pearl if she has extra ink we could use?” he asked Jessamine. Pearl Took was fond of writing poetry; she’d be the most likely to have a good supply.

“Ink? You have a full well. It’s on the desk.” Jessa said absently, washing their youngest’s jam-covered face.

“I’m going to need more.”

Jessa stopped and looked at him for the first time, frowning. “Flambard…what’s going on? First Gandalf comes to visit for the first time in years, then all those messages last night, and now this? What is it?”

“It’s bad,” he said softly. He watched his next youngest playing with a pile of small acorn caps, making designs on the floor with them.  “Not something to talk of in front of the fauntlings.”

“And you need ink for this?” she asked, keeping her voice light to keep the children unaware.

“Yes, and a good supply of parchment, as well.”

She nodded. “Shire business, I assume,” she said briskly. She always accepted these sorts of things much more readily than Flambard ever could. “Well then, I’ll go and speak to Pearl.”

Flambard didn’t realize that Jessa had taken their four children with her until she came back and the door closed quietly with no patter of little feet following behind.

“Pearl will watch the fauntlings tonight. We can fetch them tomorrow morning after breakfast.”

He nodded gratefully and took the extra ink with a small thank you. Glancing up at the map of Eriador that decorated the study wall, he began to make a copy. She watched him draft it without speaking.

When he started on a second one, she made him pause for tea. “You’ll do better with a bit of something in your stomach. Now tell me, how many of these do you need?”

“I won’t know until tomorrow. I’ll make as many as I can before then,” he said, eating his scone quickly. The flavor of strawberries lingered after he was done. He was surprised she didn’t chide him for his bad manners when he left he table without staying for their usual tea-time conversation.

He was more surprised when she pulled over a stool, took out a piece of parchment, and started on a map of her own.

“Many hands make light work,” she said, when he stared at her. He nodded, swallowing painfully. How often had he taken this for granted, Jessa helping him, with few questions, and certainly in situations that would drive most women to hit their husbands with a broom? Being the Thain’s wife, as well as the wife to the head of the Tooks, couldn’t be easy.

“Thank you,” he said hoarsely, and they worked quietly through the day, pausing only for food and to let their cramping hands rest.

There was a small pile of papers on the desk by the time Flambard was ready to sleep, but he could only feel disheartened, looking at them. No one had interrupted their work; no one had sent back word that Bella had been found. He had to prepare for the worst.

As they readied themselves for bed, he tried to think of what he could possibly say to Jessamine, stroking his waistcoat over and over.

She held his hands and kissed one of them, drawing him to the bed. “Ever since Gandalf showed up, you have been running around like a cat with a bell tied to his tail. You need to rest.”

Flambard looked over at her, really looked for the first time in what seemed like years. Her blond curls were tied back neatly at the nape of her neck for sleeping, one dark streak curling from her temple, her brown eyes gentle and kind. She was everything he’d ever wanted, when they’d married, and he’d striven to be worthy of the affection she showed him every day, but right now, he felt as though he’d failed somewhere along the way.

“I made a mistake,” he said hoarsely. He pulled off his waistcoat and then his shirt, turning away so he wouldn’t have to look at her while he admitted it. He shivered as a cool draft drifted across his back. “I made a mistake and now Bella is in danger”

“Bella? Bungo’s girl?”

Flambard nodded, pulling on his nightshirt to hide his face.

“Well then,” she said after a short pause, accepting the news with her usual equanimity. “We’d best help her. This Gandalf, is he the reason she’s in trouble?” She sat on the bed, pulling back the covers for him.

Blowing out the candle for the night, leaving a small puff of acrid smoke, Flambard found it easier to talk at the darkness as he settled in. “I don’t think so. Not exactly. At least for now, he’s trying to help her, Jessa. And he told me what will be needed, and it’s not going to be easy. I think… I think it may be the most terrible thing I’ll ever do,” he whispered.

She was silent and still for so long he thought she might have fallen asleep. “Is it necessary?” she asked.

“I think it may be.”

“Then hold on to that, no matter how bad things may get. There were acts done in the Fell Winter that were terrible, as well, but we did them just the same, if needed. And survived.” She shifted until she was closer, her hair ticking his chin. “This is why you need the maps? Why there’s a call to the Green?”

“Yes. I…” Flambard stopped. “I can’t…”

“It’s all right,” she said softly. “You don’t have to say more. I can wait until tomorrow. Rest.”

Flambard nodded, feeling her arms reach over to encircle his round belly. Her body slowly softened against his own, but sleep eluded him for far too many hours.

The next day, when they arrived at the Green with their little ones in tow, there were only a dozen Tooks present. Their numbers grew as the sun rose in the sky, along with the roar of their chatter, and Flambard met with each family, telling them that he would explain all later in the afternoon, when everyone had a chance to gather.

Flambard grew heartily sick of the phrase ‘later’ before an hour had even passed.

But finally, after an early supper, he spread the word for the older children to take the younger into the hall next to the green - a nice meeting house for inclement weather - and enjoy themselves with the desserts that had been left for them. The adults gathered on the Green outside.

Flambard swallowed, rubbing his hands together nervously before standing up on a stump near the front. He’d spoken to crowds such as this for over a decade now, but when all faces turned his way, he found himself frozen for the first time.

“So what’s this all about?” Flambard’s brother, Sigismond, yelled the question, likely for exactly the effect it had, which was to irritate Flambard into speaking.

“If you’d be quiet, I’d tell you!” It was probably the fact that he’d yelled at all that got them to quiet down. He was getting shocked looks by half the people there, and worried ones from the rest.  “I...” Flambard stopped, stuttering, looking out at his people, who _trusted_ him as the head of the clan. The obligation had never felt so heavy.

How did he talk of this? It had never been spoken of within the clan before, only passed down by Gandalf to those who took over as the head. How?

“I have quite a lot to discuss with you tonight, so please, no interrupting until I’m done. It’s a very serious business that brings us here today.” There was whispering, but nothing more. Flambard considered that a success.

“There is information that is passed down to the head of the Tooks, and it is beyond time that it was shared with you all,” he said, trying to start from the beginning as he knew it. “Before our clan came over the Misty Mountains, something…happened to them. No, I don’t know exactly what, Sigismond, so quiet down! But it, well, I’m told that it changed us, the Tooks. There is something _special_ about our clan. We’ve all known it. Might be it’s to do with the little bit of Took magic we’ve got, might not. I don’t know. But it’s something so significant that we have been…or, well, we are…we will… that is…we’re very important in the fight against…against dark creatures. Like…like orcs and goblins and such.”

There was a long silence.

“What are you trying to say, Flambard? Speak clear!” someone shouted from the back. Everyone else looked confused, too.

“I’m as clear as I can be!” he snapped. “All you need to know is that…there’s a property all Tooks have; it’s- it’s the essence of Tooks, a part of us.” He should have made Gandalf explain the situation more clearly. What he remembered sounded beyond foolish when he spoke the words aloud. “I’m sorry there’s not more. But you need to understand that Tooks have this…unique quality, and it’s something that orcs and goblins _want._ And now…”

He swallowed, looking at them. Jessa stepped over and took his hand in hers, blunt fingers soft and warm.

“I made a mistake.” His voice was so hoarse he wasn’t sure how many could even hear him. “I made a mistake, and Bella Baggins is going to pay for it if we don’t all do something. She has more of this essence than most of us, at least that’s what Gandalf says. And now she’s run off, and it’s put her in danger.”

“Bella’s run off?” Mirabella Took asked, her youngest, Amaranth, holding on to her yellow skirt. “But why would she do such a thing?”

“It’s my fault,” Flambard said, quietly. He didn’t want to speak of his own part in this, but they deserved the truth, if they were going to help. He didn’t care if Gandalf didn’t want it known. “I’m ashamed to say I had planned to force her to choose a suitor. She heard of it and bolted.”

Jessa’s hand pulled from his and she smacked him in the arm. The fact that she hit him hurt far more than the actual blow. “Why would you do that?!That’s…that’s what the Big Folk do! It’s barbaric!”

“I know! And I agree, but…she has to wed. Gandalf said-”

“What do we care what Gandalf, who hasn’t been here in decades, said about our Bella?” Sigismond had stomped up to the front now, copper curls flying, and Flambard winced at the outrage on his younger brother’s face.  Bella had always been a favorite of Sigismond’s.

“Gandalf is part of this. He’s not a regular Big Folk. He’s a wizard.”

Silence. At least telling them that had accomplished _something._

Flambard ran a hand down his waistcoat, the red brocade rough against his fingers. “He knows things. Secret things, even why the Tooks have, well, what we have. But that’s not important!” he raised his voice over the growing noise as people began to yell out their anger and worry. “Bella is what’s important! She left a note saying she’s gone from the Shire, but…if she does, there are creatures that’ll come after her.”

The gabble died down and all eyes focused on him again. Flambard had to swallow before he could keep going. “Gandalf says there are fell things on the roads outside of the Shire these days, and they’re looking for our Bella. If we don’t help, they’ll find her and…we don’t want to know what they’ll do to her.”

Old Hildifons stepped forward, tottering on his blackthorn cane as Hobbits moved out of his path. “And why should we believe that? ‘Fell things?’ What are those, exactly? Why should we believe one of the Big Folk, who we hardly know any more, about what goes on outside the Shire? He could tell us that cheese flies and birds are learning to speak Elvish; it wouldn’t make it true!”

Hildifons never had liked Gandalf. Flambard had forgotten about that.

“It’s true.”

Flambard startled at the deep voice that came from the back of the crowd, and they parted to let through a fair-haired man, one of the few Big Folk that Flambard knew, a Ranger named Harod. He cut a fierce figure in his dark leathers, with a black eye patch over his left eye that, it was rumored, he’d received fighting a pack of orcs single-handedly.

Harod straightened his gray cloak as he looked around to address them all. “Bandits are roaming the lands outside of the Shire. Orcs and goblins have been sighted in greater numbers than we’ve seen since the Fell winter. If Gandalf says that they’re looking for Bella, I’d believe him. He would not lie on this matter.”

The Hobbits nearest began talk in hushed tones. Many of the tweens might not know much of Gandalf, but the Rangers were respected in the Shire. If a Ranger said something was true, well then…

Sigismond finally spoke up. “So…we need to help find her before she leaves, is that it?” he asked. “We can form search parties and-”

“It’s too late for that.” Flambard sighed heavily. “By the time we discovered she’s gone, she was likely close to the borders. The Bounders already have instruction to send word if they’ve seen her, and to try and find her and turn her back if they can. I’ve received no word from them, though.”

“Gandalf the Gray spread the word among the Rangers as well before taking a horse and heading South. We watch the roads, but none have seen her,” Harod added.

“If…assuming she’s left the Shire, what we need now…it’s a different thing entirely.” And here Flambard stopped, because how could he say what came next? How could he say this to his family and friends?

After a long pause, Mirabella piped up, “Well, what is it? We’re not going to leave the girl alone out there. What do we need to do?”

Flambard still couldn't speak, and finally the Ranger did it for him. “You need bait.”

“What?” Jessa stared at the Ranger and then looked back up at Flambard. “Bait? What does he mean?”

“Gandalf says that Bella is special,” Flambard said, repeating what he’d said before.

“Obviously,” Sigismond snapped. “And?”

“She’s _very_ special, so special that if she is taken or k-killed, it could affect the entire Shire.”

“All of Arda,” Harod corrected. “Gandalf was very specific when he spoke to us. If this Bella Baggins should fall into the hands of the forces of darkness, all of Arda would be in danger.”

“All of Arda?” Jessa asked. “ _All of_ _Arda?_ I love Bella as much as the rest of us, but I never noticed her being so important that the entire world would crumble without her, no matter how saddened we would be.”

“And yet, Gandalf has so said.” Harod obviously believed that if Gandalf spoke, that made it truth.

Flambard wished he could disagree, but listening to Gandalf say something, you _felt_ as though he were speaking truth. Even if you doubted yourself later. Shifting his feet on the stump, Flambard broke in before the increased whispers grew louder. “Gandalf said that creatures can…track her, somehow. They’ll find her, out on her own. But...” And here Flambard took a deep breath again. “But it’s something that _all_ Tooks have. That quality we have that marks us as different? Dark creatures can sense it. Any Tooks who leave the Shire can run afoul of this.”

Sigismond’s eyes were wide. “Dark creatures can _track Tooks?_ Why did no one ever tell us this before!?”

Flambard had asked Gandalf the same question, but _‘because no creatures were looking before’_ seemed far too complacent for Flambard’s peace of mind. He didn’t think repeating it would be useful, and he shrugged unhappily. “I’m not sure I know the true reason.  I only found out after Bella left. She will attract creatures more strongly, according to Gandalf, but they’ll be drawn to all of us to some extent and he wants us to…he needs the Tooks to…”

Sigismond was nodding slowly to himself. “He wants us to leave the Shire and draw them away from Bella.” A quick, growing murmur spread through the crowd and Flambard nodded.

“It would…it would have to be groups of at least two or three, but no more than four or our…our…”

“Combined Tookishness?” Sigismond supplied dryly, and Flambard waved his hand in the air, frustrated.

“Fine, our Tookishness… it would be too much. Large groups would be caught for certain. Any who leave the Shire need to be searching for her, as well, and bring her back straight away. But until she’s found, we need Tooks willing to travel throughout Eriador and confuse these…these things that pursue her. We need to keep them away from her.

“I know this is…this is so much to ask. It is dangerous, and I don’t know that all of those who leave will come back unharmed,” Flambard choked, looking out at the faces, especially the tweens whose eyes were shining in excitement, with none of the fear that they _should_ have. “But if you are willing, come and speak to me tonight. Tomorrow we will decide where each of you will travel. Gandalf gave me directions to places in Eriador where we will leave word once she is found, for any who are still roaming. I have maps for all who require one, and…and funds or supplies, _whatever_ is needed.”

“There are half a dozen of the Rangers who can accompany some of you, as well,” Harod added.

Flambard nodded his thanks and looked over his family one last time. “I will remain home all of tomorrow. Pack lightly, and come to see me before you…before you leave, and I…”

He had to stop. Jessa reached up and patted his leg. He stared, eyes blurring, and finally shook his head and stepped down. He shook, holding onto her hand. If it were any other group of hobbits, he thought that most would sigh, and shake their heads, while waiting for someone else to deal any unpleasantness.

But these were Tooks, and as foolishly blind as he felt he’d been with Bella, he knew his clan. They would help. And some of them might be injured, or possibly even _die,_ and it would be _his fault._ He needed a good few minutes to stand and shake before he could get past that, holding onto Jessa, and he was thankful that everyone took the time to talk to each other before they converged on him.

He should have known that Sigismond would be the first. His brother sauntered up and hugged Flambard far too tightly before releasing him. “I’ll go.”

“But, your farm…”

Sigismond smiled at him, blue eyes twinkling. “Guess you have something more to occupy your days with until I get back. I can’t leave Bella out there alone, now can I?”

“We’ll come, too,” said a soft voice behind him, and out peeped the blond head of Pimpernel Took and her tall, dusky husband, Basso Boffin. When Flambard opened his mouth to protest – they were only in their tweens! – Pimpernel poked a finger at him. “I’m not expecting, nor do we have fauntlings. Bella is a friend. We’ll be going.”

Sigismond looked as reluctant as Flambard, but finally shrugged helplessly. “I’ll look out for them,” he said, and Flambard nodded.

The twins Dodinas and Dinodas were next, younger even than Bella with black curls and mischievous blue eyes, dressed in matching blue shirts with red waistcoats. “We always wanted to see outside the Shire,” Dodinas claimed.

“Well, the attractive young lasses outside the Shire,” Dinodas corrected, and they both winked at him.

“Not without me, you don’t!” piped up a voice. Their brother Rorimac barreled into them both and nearly knocked them down. If you didn’t know the family well, you might think they were triplets instead of twins, they were so similar. “I want to help Bella,” he said softly, and the twins patted his arm.

Flambard had forgotten; Rorimac had tried to court Bella, himself.  But they were all so _young!_ How could he even think of allowing _any_ of their tweens to leave the Shire for something as dangerous as this?

“I don’t know, lads…” he said, and then grunted as Jessa elbowed him in the side. She put her hand on his arm and looked at him solemnly.

“If we believe they are old enough to decide on a husband or wife, then they are old enough to make this choice, too, husband,” she said firmly.

He swallowed, nodding. He couldn’t stop himself from putting a hand on Dodinas’ – or was it Dinodas’? – shoulder. “Are you very sure, lads? No one will find fault with you for not going.”

Dinodas and Dodinas looked at each other, and then at Rorimac, and all three spoke at the same time. “She’d do the same for us.” And that was that, it seemed.

Their sister Asphodel, along with their other sister Primula and her husband Drogo were only a few minutes behind them. Primula gripped a picnic basket as though she’d like to hit Flambard in the head with it, but she simply told him curtly that he should expect them the next day for their map, and they turned and left.

“They’ve only been married three weeks,” Flambard protested, shaking his head.

“Then they will make extra certain to watch out for each other.” Jessa patted his arm again.

Flambard soon began to lose track, there were so many coming to volunteer. He though at least a third of the Tooks in the Shire might have spoken to him. Paladine and Eglantine came with Adelard Took. Rosamunda showed up with Odovacar, Isembold, and Donnamira.

Pearl and Pervinca Took came forward, holding their skirts in their fists as though daring someone to stop them, and Primula’s brother Saradas came scrambling forward to offer to accompany them.

Saradoc and Esmerelda Brandybuck even volunteered with two more Brandybucks that had no Took blood at all, Marmadoc and Ilberic. The two men lived together next to Saradoc and were rumored to be closer than was quite proper.

“Why…?” Flambard started to ask, and Marmadoc waved him away.

“Fond of the girl,” he said.

“And fond of our Saradoc and Esmerelda, too,” Ilberic added.

“What else would we do?” Marmadoc finished.

Flambard nodded, swallowing down the lump in his throat, and went to speak to the next group of Hobbits waiting in the long line of Tooks that were willing to leave the Shire for the sake of Bella Baggins.

Yavanna protect them all.

 

***

 

 

_TA 2914 mid-summer_

 

In Erebor and Isengard, two figures’ palantíri suddenly illuminated with the bright light of a fiery figure. Two minds were assaulted with images of a dwarf in silver, holding a shining stone in his hand; the one ring fading as it sank into a faceless figure; small, strange creatures with elven ears and furry feet bearing the taint of dark power. And a voice whispered in their ears as visions of swarming orcs and goblins swam before their eyes.

“Bring them to me.”

 

 

***

 

_TA 2914_

_Three weeks later_

_East Road, east of Bree_

 

Pale and wide-eyed, Bella stayed perfectly still, crouched under a tree, chanting silently “Don’t see me. Please don’t see me!”

Half a dozen men were standing in her camp, the closest not more than four feet away. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her! She’d only camped for a few days, just until her monthly cramps ended and it was more comfortable to walk, but she hadn’t thought her camp was visible from the road. How had they found her?

She clutched tightly at her pack, holding on for dear life. It was the reason she’d been awake rather than trapped in her bedroll when the men had crept into camp. She’d been rummaging through her pack for her last set of rags that weren’t washed and drying on a log by the stream. When she’d looked up, the men had appeared out of the darkness like specters.

Bella had never wished so hard to remain unseen in her life. And she’d never had people so close, where they could trip over her at any moment. Her Took magic snarled and fought every time she began to panic, the edges slipping, but she begged and prayed and kept it under control. She remained invisible, her and her pack, at the base of the tree, in a shaft of moonlight that would illuminate her in an instant if her magic failed. She couldn’t let herself be seen.

But they were taking everything she had!

Tall, with dark, greasy hair and stained leathers, one man went through her bedroll, rolling it up and tucking it under his arm. Two were taking her pan and the mushrooms she’d gathered for breakfast. Others went through the saddlebags on her pony, Sweet-breath, pulling out every single one of her supplies. One man exclaimed when he came across her two extra skirts, and they started calling for her.

“Come on out, Dearie. We won’t hurt you.”

“We just want to say hello.”

“Right friendly blokes, we are, too.”

At that, all of them laughed coarsely and Bella trembled with fright, thinking ‘don’t see me’ as hard as she could, over and over. She was terrified that if she stopped to think about what they were saying, she really would lose control of her magic. What they might _do_ to her if that happened was too awful to think of.

“We know you’re out there!” one called, looking blindly into the dark woods. She’d laid her campfire in a small pit, with a side vent to draw air, and it gave little light to help them search.

“Eh, forget her. She’ll likely come back in the morning,” another said, scratching a head of scraggly, black strands. “Where else is she going to go?”

To Bella’s horror, they didn’t leave, settling in around _her_ fire, and finishing up _her_ food. She could smell the last of her oats cooking and her mouth watered. She hoped desperately that her stomach wouldn’t grumble and give her away.

She watched them, eyes tearing up as they consumed every last bit of extra food she’d had in the saddlebags, even the mushrooms. They belched and scratched themselves, muttering to each other in low voices and laughing. One brought out a bottle with such a strong smell that it stung Bella’s nose even as far away as she was, but they all seemed to enjoy it, laughing even more loudly as they drank.

Her fingers were cramping over the straps of her pack when they finished the bottle and started to fall asleep.

Thank Yavanna, she could escape. Crouched against the trunk, she got ready to sneak away as soon as the last one lay down.

She felt foolish beyond measure when she realized it wasn’t going to happen. The man was keeping watch. Of course he was. Only an idiot – like herself – didn’t set up some sort of watch. And what was a terrible night for this! The air was clear, the moon full. The forest itself seemed aligned against her as the crickets were silent, the small scurrying animals busy elsewhere. Not even a breeze stirred, so that her tiniest shift in movement made the dead leaves and brush underneath her rustle so loudly it drew the man’s attention.

His head turned in her direction almost before she realized she’d moved. She froze, chanting frantically to herself for him to not see her, wrestling with the magic that bucked like a spooked pony.

There was nothing to look at here! Nothing, there was nothing here, oh please don’t let him see.

The man finally grew bored and his eyes wandered elsewhere, but neither he, nor the others he eventually woke, were derelict at their duties. She would have thought they would be as sloppy in keeping watch as they were in their dress, but that was not the case. No sound went unnoticed; she spent the night trapped under the tree.

Two twigs that poked into her back started to feel like hot pokers. Her legs were numb underneath her. She could feel blood from her menses seep through her smallclothes and soak into her skirts. When the sun finally rose, her eyes were gritty with exhaustion and fear. She felt completely exposed, the shadows fading and leaving her seated beneath the tree, in the middle of the camp. She was so tired of fighting the magic that her head felt fuzzy and grated raw, but she continued praying, and their eyes slid past her.

She could have cried when they finally left, soon after dawn, grumbling about not finding ‘the woman.’ She did cry when she realized that they’d taken nearly _everything._ Her pony, her cookware, her map of Eriador, even her bedroll and her clothes, which couldn’t possibly fit any of them!

It was one thing to read about villains in a story, but to meet them in person was quite another. Why would they do such a thing? How could they knowingly leave someone alone and without supplies like this? How _could_ they?

She managed to stem her tears by the time she could no longer hear the men talking to one another, but she mind felt no less battered. Clenching her teeth, she tried to get to her feet and fell over, crying as her legs gave out. It was worse when they started to cramp and sting fiercely.

She half dragged, half crawled her way to the stream, worried how slow she was moving. What if they heard her? What if they came back and _found_ her? Panting, half-panicked at the mere thought, she managed to work up to a half shamble by the time she heard water. Her rags for her monthlies were still laid out innocently on an old log, bare of bark. Dry now, and she was very grateful to still have them, but she had so little otherwise. Her pack and the few things in it were all she had left: a few cakes of travel bread – at least there was _some_ food - a small knife, her sling, the long red shawl that belonged to her mother, her flint, her wooden cup and spoon, two waterskins, and her cloak. 

She cried quietly as her legs slowly recovered, rubbing them until they regained feeling. And cried again as she had to pee and was forced to deal with her soiled and blood soaked skirt and smallclothes, which she couldn't even change out of yet. She didn’t feel safe enough to stay near camp for as long as it would take.

It was tempting to lie down and simply weep herself into exhaustion. The thought of her father, though, stopped her. What would he think if she gave up, her adventure barely started? He’d be shamed, and rightly so.

She took a shaky breath, looking herself over. “What’s important?” she asked herself, just like her da would do whenever things went terribly wrong and Bella would fret and cry. “M-my health. I’m not hurt, and I can walk, and they didn’t…” she took another trembling breath. “I’m not hurt.  And…I have a little food left. I have my cloak for warmth. I have the clothes I’m wearing, and my rags. I can…I can make fire. I can carry water. And…and I can’t be that far from Rivendell.”

There, all important things, that mattered, that were good. She could work with this.

“First things first,” she told herself, wiping the tears from her eyes. She needed to leave. _That_ was the first thing. It wasn’t safe here.

Gathering up her rags and stuffing them into her half-full pack, she shouldered it and trudged east along the stream. As long as she remembered that the road was to the left of the stream, she wouldn’t get too lost, she didn’t think. And she wanted to stay near water, and…

Bella bit her lip to keep from crying yet again – she was _sick_ of crying. She was sick of remembering feeling helpless and afraid while sitting so close to those men, terrified that they would see her no matter how hard she tried to keep them from doing so.

And she felt so _foolish_. She’d been on the road for nearly three weeks since Bree, but she could have made it to Rivendell if she’d hurried. She needn’t have been vulnerable like this if she’d simply used the wits Yavanna gave her and remembered that travel by herself was more dangerous, so it should be done _quickly._

But the days had been warm, her food had held out well, and no one had come after her, so she’d felt no rush after the first few nights past Bree.  She had walked at a comfortable pace, only leaving the main road for travel when she spotted dust clouds in the distance indicating others might be approaching.

She’d paused some days simply to lie in fields of wild flowers, or wash her dresses in a hidden stream or pond and let them, and her, heat in the sun.  She’d spent a few days fishing here and there, and some doing…nothing.

If she hadn’t wasted all that time, she would have been at Rivendell and none of this would have happened, she thought. It was hard not to banish the regret. It stuck with her for hours, even when she finally stopped in the later afternoon and knelt in the stream, scrubbing her skirt, petticoat, and smallclothes to get as much of the blood out as she could. She put on her petticoat while still wet, but standing in the woods half-clothed was still wildly uncomfortable after what had happened.

What would she do if someone came across her, undressed as she was?

She’d heard numerous wagons roll toward Bree, plus a caravan and a small group of horses galloping the opposite direction. Any one of them could decide to stop for the day and move off the road. And then they would look for water…

Before last night, she had worried most about Gandalf coming to fetch her back, maybe even a Ranger or two, as silly as it was to think that a Ranger would care about one Hobbit.

But now? Hobbits or Rangers would be _fine_ ; it was Men that frightened her. Any of the folk she heard on the distant road could be Men, and she had no way of knowing if they were friendly, or if they were more like those who had invaded her camp. Dwarves on the road, that was not as worrying. Dwarves had never done any harm to her, and the thought of someone her own size seemed more of a comfort than a threat. As for Elves, well, they were Elves. Elves were almost always good in the stories. How could she fear them?

Waiting only for her skirts to dry enough to stop dripping, she put them back on, and then continued walking for another few hours until the light faded, turning gray between the branches of elms and silver maples. She found a secluded hollow, with a heavy padding of moss hidden behind a fallen oak, and lay her cloak down.

“It’s all right,” she murmured, looking at the darkening woods a little fearfully, not feeling safe enough to light a fire in case it had attracted attention in the first place. “It’s not an adventure without at least a little danger. One poor encounter in nearly three weeks is quite good. And Rivendell is merely a day or two away, I’m sure of it.”

As night fell completely and the air grew chill, she pulled up her shawl for a blanket, curled the corner of her cloak up around her, and shivered with damp skirts as she tried to fall asleep.

Tomorrow had to be better.

She kept that thought in her head as she carefully made her way back to the road at dawn. The stream had meandered further than she’d thought and it took her two days to find the wide, dusty track again. When she did, she soon wished she hadn’t.

She had only walked a mile or so along the road when she turned a bend and froze. The road was churned up, with dark streaks spread across it that made no sense until she saw the body of a man splayed out on the grass at the edges. Bella began praying not to be seen, eyes darting around to look for who might have done such a thing, but minutes passed and nothing stirred.

She crept up quietly to the figure in the grass, trying to remain unseen, and had hope that he might yet live until she came close enough to smell the sickly sweet scent of meat going to rot in the heat. She blinked and saw the great rent across his chest and the angle of his neck and lost her scant breakfast onto the dirt, horrified. And then she noticed his garments. He had on a long gray cloak with the familiar six pointed star of the Rangers, used as a clasp. 

A Ranger? She looked at his face more closely. Thin, with an eye patch, and fair haired. She’d seen him before. He was one of the Rangers who’d watched the road when she’d been leaving the Shire. Just days ago, she’d seen him alive and chatting with his friends and now…

How truly, truly awful.

What was he doing out so far from the Shire? Did Rangers usually travel this distance? Or had Flambard or Gandalf truly sent them out to look for _her?_ Was she being paranoid?

And…who had killed him?

She looked around, seeing nothing, hearing only the heavy drone of the flies on the man’s corpse. And she could see more over a small hillock next to the road, so many that they were swarming in the air high enough to see above the grass.  Bella gulped, clutching her pack to her shoulders, and crept quietly up to the top of the low hill. The grass was warm and soft under her feet. The scent of rotting meat increased; she would swear she could taste it on her _tongue._

Peering through the tall grass at the peak, all she saw at first was blood, covering the entire slope of the hillside. She didn’t realize that one of the dark lumps she was staring at was the carcass of a large horse until after she heaved up what bile remained in her stomach. There were ashes next to it from a fire down at the base of the hill, plus the remains of three smaller horses, ponies, maybe. All had been stripped and mostly eaten. The saddles had been sliced off, littering the ground next to them, and left to rot with the ponies. The grass had large patches flattened as though a number of people had been there, but there was no evidence of anyone left alive, or dead.

Who would do this? Who would eat a _horse?_

She was too frightened to move, at first. Birds warbled in the distance. The sun beat down on her head and back. Even still, she counted to a thousand before she was willing to inch back down the hill.

Swallowing, Bella wanted to run and never look back, but…she couldn’t simply _leave_ that poor Ranger there, his body like a discarded toy. She tried to drag him farther from the trail, thinking of a proper burial, _away_ from there - not that she knew how she was going to dig one with no tools. It was like trying to shift a boulder.

There weren’t enough rocks to make a cairn, that she could see, the fields around her smooth and earthy, but finally, she rearranged his limbs so that he looked as though he were sleeping, and carefully covered his face with his cloak. She crept down the road, over another low hill, to hunt for white heather to place around him, for protection. It took over an hour to make the proper burial wreaths, but not a soul passed down the road in either direction. She finished as the sun passed its peak and laid the heather wreaths on his body. She couldn’t close her eyes to say a brief blessing from Yavanna and instead watched the road and hills tensely while wishing him on his way to wherever Men went after death.

She didn’t look back as she walked away.

Unlike the last few days, now that she wished for all the cover she could find, it disappeared. The small patch of forest to the south of the road thinned, and then shifted into low hills with sparse tree cover and low growing brush. The only way to she could avoid being seen was if she travelled over the hills, hidden from the sight of the road, and crawled up to check every so often that she was still close going the right direction.

Her passage was slow, and nerve wracking. She was forced to watch her step, avoiding rabbit holes and pausing to pull burrs and thistles from her legs. She shied at every sound, ducking down behind whatever she could find when she heard noise from the road itself. By the time the sky grew dark, she made camp in a cluster of bushes, no fire once again, and wishing that she’d seen some sign she was as close to Rivendell as she hoped.

“What's important,” she whispered as she lay in the dark, hugging herself and listening to the crickets sing to each other. “I’m still alive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your kudos and comments, yet again! ^_^ This chapter was really hard to write, and even harder to post - I still feel it's pretty stilted, and there's likely some grammatical errors I've missed, but again, practice putting something up quickly, so I'm sucking it up and getting it out anyway.
> 
> \- If it's not already clear, I try to give characters attitudes that I don't always share myself. Dwalin is a good case of this, with his attitudes toward altered mental states due to an injury. Personally, Dwalin strikes me as someone who makes up his mind about something and doesn't do a lot of soul searching after the fact. I will, of course, have to poke at him a lot during the story because of that. It's far too much fun not to. ^_^
> 
> \- Attitudes about distance: If you have never met someone who has rarely travelled outside a small geographical area, it's quite interesting. There is often an amazing naiveté about how distance translates into the real world. I've had my mother's sister visit us in the USA and, even looking at a map, she could never quite understand why it took so long to get everywhere. She would ask to visit a city and think it was minutes away when it would be hours, or hours when it might be days. She couldn't get her head around how far away everything actually was. I view Bella as having the same difficulty with looking at a map and trying to figure out how long a journey it takes to travel to one's destination, especially at a time when 'to scale' maps were not likely to be found (Rivendell is supposed to be about 458 miles from Hobbiton, according to the Atlas of Middle Earth.).
> 
> \- I've seen various calculations for how long it takes for Thorin's company, or Frodo and the Fellowship, to travel various places; Frodo and the gang covering 19-28 miles a day is noted a number of places. And honestly? That seems like a serious over-estimation to me, for one major reason. That is a good distance for an average sized human being who is fit and has good stamina. It's an insane distance for a tiny little Hobbit who is less than three feet tall with a stride of about 14 inches (I was curious, okay?). Unless we're telling 'the tale of the Sprinting Hobbits,' I think they weren't traveling quite that quickly. 
> 
> I have tried to calculate out how long it takes the characters to get places based on that assumption - seriously, I actually worked it out. I even have a spreadsheet, and I kind of wish I was kidding on that (VERY curious, with a side order of geeky, that's me).
> 
> \- The use of the term Fall: random trivia for the geek in all of us. In the UK: it's autumn. In the USA: it's Fall. But in the 16th century or earlier in the UK: it was Fall. (http://grammarist.com/usage/autumn-fall/). So, for the feel of things, I'm using Fall. Trivia, coming back to bite us in the ass at unexpected moments.


	5. Goblins, Goblins Everywhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin's home, Kili's antics, and Hobbits having a rather terrible time of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the characters and world belong to Tolkien, not I. But they're awfully fun to play with.
> 
> The Big Bang has officially ended, so...this should be up in full. Like today. But as the monster has grown to ridiculous proportions, it's going to take a bit to get it all up. No beta, so all the mistakes (and there are going to be a lot), are mine.

_TA 2914 Late Summer_

 

Wearing nothing but his summer trousers, rough stone pleasantly cool underneath his feet, Thorin finished hanging the last batch of smoked fish and stood back to inspect his work. He wiped sweat off his brow with a forearm, grimacing at the stench. He needed to wash in the river before bed or he’d transfer the stink to his furs and never get it out.

Thorin shifted back to get a more thorough look, nodding with at least a small sense of satisfaction. The light was poor, only the flickering remnants from the fire coming through the opening that led to the rest of the large cave.

It was enough. The wooden beams he’d made for the recessed alcove were holding up well with the weight of dozens of smoked carcasses, cattails and onions drying underneath. His heart twinged at the rich, smoky scent, remembering summer nights spent hunting with Dwalin and Frerin, eating fried fish over the campfire. It had been a better time, then, before his grandfather’s madness had fully taken hold.

Before his own had nearly done the same.

Thorin banished the thought to the back of his mind, where it belonged. The past could not be changed. And if succumbing to gold sickness was the action of a weak Dwarrow, who did not deserve the title that he’d inherited, at least Thorin had acted swiftly enough to protect his people from that weakness.

Thorin glanced at the hanging provisions and for a moment, the reality of it struck him painfully. However proud he might have felt moments before, this was hardly more than an oversized den, storing very plain fare. Even a midnight snack in Erebor amounted to a feast compared to how he ate now. Thorin had often wished, in these last years, that he’d paid more attention to what little herb lore the huntsmasters had tried to drill into his skull when he’d trained as a youth. His meals would have been the better for it.

But all that remained now were vague memories of spicy spring greens, none of which were to be found this late in the year. His mouth watered, thinking of the spicy-sour bite of sour cream and horseradish sauce on fire-roasted trout. It had been so long since he’d had the chance for that kind of flavor, it was hard to recall it properly. But what he _did_ remember…

“Don’t dream of what you cannot have,” he reminded himself. Brushing his hands off on his trousers, irritated that he’d let himself moan about such things, even if only in his own head, Thorin walked back into the main cave.

It was brighter but still dim, the fire crackling and straining to illuminate the gray and black speckled walls. Good granite. Solid. And the cave itself was a good size for a single Dwarrow. Large enough to stand up in, with three alcoves branching off from the main area. He had already filled one with stacks of firewood, along with the neatly folded up frame for the smoker. The other was empty, yet.

The floor was relatively flat, angling toward the front so it shouldn’t flood when it rained. One small crevice in the back sank down into the floor beyond what he could sense; it was perfect for a makeshift privy. And sometime in the past, the front of the cave had collapsed, leaving a tumble of boulders and stones blocking most of the entrance. Dirt had filled in the crevices over time, with plants and shrubs setting up shop over the decades until it was nearly indistinguishable from the rest of the surrounding hills.

The only way in was a twisting path through the debris. It kept daylight from penetrating, but it allowed him to set up a good sized fire inside without fear of the light shining from the cave opening and giving away his location to any who might wish him ill. The tradeoff was worth it, especially as the trees above dissipated any smoke that emerged, once he’d dug a few openings through spaces between the boulders.

For only a few months’ worth of work, Thorin’s home was very well hidden.

Scooping out a cupful of water from the bucket by the entrance, Thorin sat down on his bed – a pile of furs he’d been able to cure covering bundles of pine needles and soft grass. Grimly ignoring thoughts of Erebor once again, he got out his whetstone and began to sharpen the one blade he still had, a good quality knife that was more precious than mithril to him now.

His only other weapons, a handful of fire-hardened spears, leaned up against the wall by his bed where he could snatch one up quickly in an emergency.  Next to them were the few items he’d been able to salvage or make himself, plus what supplies he’d left Erebor with that yet survived.

It was nearly enough to remain comfortable for the entire winter. He had clothing to keep warm. There was cordage and fishhooks, a couple of wooden buckets sealed with sap, an iron pot, a good flint. A river nearby for water. Enough fire wood to last the winter and keep him from freezing.

If he collected only a little more meat before the weather turned colder and food grew scarce, he’d make it through the winter without going hungry at all.

Still sharpening, frowning at a small nick he would have to take care of, he let the familiar scrape of metal against stone sooth him. He looked around the cave again.

It truly was about as perfect as he was going to find. Thank Mahal. It was sheer chance that he’d found it at all. Thorin had been trapped during a summer storm, huddled under a pine on the hillside above. He’d been beyond weary and asking Mahal for enlightenment, some sense of what he could possibly do next, and his Stone Sense had twitched, just strong enough to detect the cave underneath.

Without that, he’d never have found it. And since he’d settled in, with the piles of stinkroot he’d gathered and spread about the hillside, it would be difficult even for an animal to sniff him out, let alone any that walked on two legs.

He smiled to himself, more viciously satisfied than happy; the orcs, and their thrice-cursed wargs, wouldn’t find him here.

Leaving Erebor, he’d never thought _that_ would be a concern. Thieves and rogues he’d been prepared for. A strong arm, a keen mind, and a good sword took care of most of them. The sword alone was all that was needed, quite often.

Insults and slights from Men and Elves had not been a surprise, either, although Thorin hadn’t realized how badly a Dwarrow was cheated when out on his own. There was little leverage to haggle for fair payment when he was the only one of his race in an entire village, and typically far more desperate for coin than any who lived there.

He’d learned. Moving from town to village to city, he’d avoided other Dwarrows and worked as a smith, a guard, or even hired brawn for caravans, as long as they were headed in the right direction. He’d made enough to live off of, although he’d lost some weight, and some pride, along the way.

And then came Dunland. Two years before, while working as a guard for a caravan moving North through Dunland, they’d been attacked by an orc pack. And the pack had recognized him. Thorin still had no idea why a random group of orcs would not only know Thorin’s name, but know _of_ _him_ well enough to recognize him on sight, but even a wit-addled fool would pay attention when his name was screamed as part of an orc battle cry.

Another guard and Thorin were the only two to live that day, aside from the scattering of goblins who scrambled off when the last orc was slain.

Thorin could remember his fury, at the time. Hatred of the orcs and goblins hadn’t left him since Azanulbizar, but that day, he’d been more enraged over the loss of the trade goods. Without a caravan, he received no pay, and he’d needed it desperately at the time to pay for the materials to repair his clothing and his weapon. Not to mention to buy his next meal.

Thorin would forever regret that he’d been so blinded by his own petty needs that he ignored what was right in front of his nose. He knew better. Educated to be King, his first thoughts should have been to determine what was going on, not worry about his ragged garments and empty belly, no matter how much those might plague him.

Instead, he’d made his way to the nearest Human village, helping bring in the last of the harvest in exchange for a barn to sleep in and a few meals. They hadn’t treated him well, but they hadn’t treated him poorly, either.

There had been women and children there.

All who had died when a larger company of orcs than the first descended on the village, looking for _Thorin._ He didn’t remember much of the village itself. He didn’t truly recall the people there, aside from the screaming. Instead, all he could see was the closed eyes of a child. A tiny girlchild with a faded green skirt and Fíli’s golden hair, who’d screamed so loud he’d found her easily, even in the chaos of burning homes and fields. The goblin about to cut her down had been the last Thorin’s blade had tasted that night as he spirited the little one away to the nearest woods.

He hadn’t realized until he’d made it to safety that she’d been stabbed through before he found her. She hadn’t lasted until morning. She’d never even opened her eyes. Even now, sometimes he found himself wondering what color they would have been.

Since that night, Thorin had no rest, and he _still_ did not know why he was hunted.  Hardly a week passed before he sighted orc packs in the distance, or heard wargs howling. He’d lost his sword early on, now lying at the bottom of a river along with the warg he’d impaled with it. His one attempt to forge a new one, in a city he’d though large enough to withstand an assault by orcs, had ended with no sword and a new set of wounds. Hardly there a day and he’d been cornered by Men in strange garb who spoke of the price they would be paid for handing him over to the orcs.

They made the mistake of thinking that shorter in stature meant weaker. He’d hoped to have at least one left alive to find out _why_ he was being hunted, but a knife didn’t give him a lot of leeway for mercy, not if he wanted to avoid injury himself. He’d had to leave the city without half his supplies, in the end, minutes ahead of the city’s constable, looking for someone to blame for the bloodshed.

He hadn’t visited a city since, and the few swords he’d scavenged from the orcs were poorly made, and seldom lasted more than a few encounters with them. Months had passed, and their numbers only increased, no matter where he roamed. Thorin had no one to trade with for supplies or food, nor any coin to purchase it. He barely had time to hunt or fish enough to keep himself from starving.

The winter before he’d nearly starved to death. Would have, if he were less hearty than a dwarf. Freezing had been a near thing, as well, but he’d managed to find the den of a large bear and taken not just the den but the bear’s life, and used it to keep himself fed, and warm, although the pelt had not been properly cured and the smell had been foul.

This summer had been even worse than the year before. Common roads had evidence of travelers attacked and killed, mountain passes were watched, villages sacked and burned, and as he travelled, he was constantly forced to turn back and take other, less familiar routes, or a few times, dig in and hide until the orcs passed him by.

If Thorin hadn’t found this cave, and managed to shake the orcs from his trail, he was certain he would still be wandering the wilds, hunted. This winter likely would have been one too many to survive.  But Mahal had granted him a mercy, and now he had…this.

A dwelling, warm and relatively safe. For the first time in over a year, he’d been able to _rest._ He had another month, likely, before the first snowfall, plenty of time to get himself enough food to last the entire winter, perhaps even some venison. He’d have to go to the far side of the forest – deer seemed to avoid this side of the hills - but he’d heard no wargs nearby. The risk would be minimal.

Even if he happened to come across a few scouts, he could lose them in the hills here, or, as usual, see if he could take care of them and acquire a weapon or two. As long as he left sign that _he_ could follow to find his way back to the cave, he should be fine leaving his new home.

Nearly every Dwarrow had a habit of picking up odd bits of stone on his travels. It was good to have some on hand, wherever you might roam, useful for when a Dwarrow had to leave a message for another. A bit of foreign stone out in the open was a useful signal. A Man or Elf might not recognize that a simple gray stone wasn’t native, but even the littlest Dwarrow was taught their stones, usually before they were taught their first weapon.

Thorin could find his way back here, even if he wasn’t sure at the moment where exactly his cave was compared to the rest of the world.  West of the Misty Mountains, East of a large river, and not as far south as Dunland. More than that, though, he couldn’t tell.

As though it mattered where he was; the only thing that truly mattered was where he _wasn’t._

Thorin sighed, the knife loose in his hands as he examined the keener edge. Exiled, apart from kith and kin, with no expectation of seeing them again before life ended. And the curse of his line remained. He could yet feel the draw of gold. The sensation might be muted, but without fail, he could pinpoint the direction of the Mountain after only a few minutes’ concentration, he felt such a connection to its riches.

No matter what he tried, how hard he fought, he had not been able to escape it. A constant urge to acquire at least one piece, to feel it against his skin. It was easier to ignore on some days than others, but there would be no returning to the Mountain for him, not like this.

The shame of it hollowed him. Too weak to fight it off, leaving his own people, his family, his _responsibilities_ behind because _he_ was the greatest threat to them all. Not a day went by that he didn’t think of them and worry about whether Frerin was able to cope with his new duties as King; he was a compassionate Dwarrow, but often feckless and restless, never thinking he’d ever have to take the reins. And the boys, His boys had looked up to him with eyes that made him feel as though he could accomplish anything. What must they think of him, now that he’d abandoned them all?

Were they well? Were they grieved? He could only hope that as they got older, they would understand why he had done what he had done. He could do nothing else, not if he wanted peace and safety for his people, and for them. But his people were strong, he reminded himself, wishing it changed how wretched he felt; they would endure and prosper, with or without him.

And Dwalin would look out for the family, no matter how much he might long to hunt Thorin down and strangle him with his bare hands. Thorin was absolutely sure that strangling was the _least_ of what Dwalin would like to do to him.

He could take some comfort that Dwalin remained safe enough to wish Thorin ill, rather than roaming Middle Earth alongside him. Because Thorin could _not_ go back, not unless he wanted to doom them all with whatever he rash proclamations he would make in his gold-maddened folly.

All he could do was pray to Mahal to keep them safe, and continue on despite the loathing for his own weakness creeping under his skin. He deserved every sneer, ever look of contempt, that he’d received since he left.

The only reason he was not dead yet was because he was as stubborn as any in the Durin line. Weak he might be, but he would endure still.

Besides, the orcs clearly wished him dead, even if he had no knowledge of why he mattered. He was no longer King Under the Mountain. There was no value to killing him. But he would dance naked for the sexual pleasure of Thranduil before he’d lie down and die for the pleasure of _orcs._

He had shelter, food, a knife… he would survive. The cave might do well enough for a permanent dwelling, who knew.

He laughed shortly, for the first time in months, staring blindly at the ceiling as his knife fell onto the furs. Dwalin always had said he was a grumpy old hermit at heart. Who knew he’d been right?

 

 

***

 

_TA 2914 Late Summer_

_Erebor_

Sitting in Balin’s office as he combed through another set of ancient trade reports, Ori jumped when the door smacked the wall and Kíli tumbled into the room. Kíli slammed it behind him and, after one wild look around the room, leapt toward Ori.

“Hide me!”

Ori half rose, thinking of assassins or invasion, and then heard Dwalin’s bellow from down the hall. He fell back into his seat with a groan.

“Kíli, what did you do?”

“I’ll tell you later, but hide me!” Kíli’s hair had fallen out of its braids – as usual – and his eyes were wide and pleading.

Ori didn’t know how the youngest Prince consistently managed to look like a helpless dwarfling. Maybe it had something to do with the lack of beard on his chin.

Ori sighed, scooting back his chair, the wood scraping over marble floor. “Here, tuck yourself under the desk.”

With a grateful wave, Kíli ran around the polished granite desk and slid underneath on his knees in a move that Ori would not be surprised if he’d practiced. There was only enough time for Ori to settle himself back in and pick up his quill when the door slammed open again and an enraged Dwalin stood in the doorway, heaving.

Ori choked and tried to cover up his horrified laugh with a cough. 

Someone had used black ink to draw markings all over Dwalin’s face, adding curlicues coming off of his eyebrows, small creatures crawling across his cheeks, and on his nose was a small face sticking out its tongue.

“Has he been here?” Dwalin snarled. He had one of his axes in his hand. Grasper, Ori thought.

“Ah, who?” Ori managed.

“Who do you think?!” Dwalin yelled. “That black haired shite of a prince, who is gonna get the tanning of his life when I catch him!”

“Oh,” Ori said faintly. “Sorry.” He shrugged, ducking his head in what he hoped came off as shy and not as eyeing the desk to ensure that no part of Kíli was visible. He was terrible at lying, but he had learned that a reputation for shyness sometimes worked in his favor in cases like this.

Dwalin cursed and stormed out of the room; the door slammed so hard Ori wondered if it might be cracked.

Kíli pushed Ori and the chair back before Ori could, popping up with a mad grin. Ori gave him a chiding look.

“That wasn’t very nice,” he said softly. “Or smart. You know he’ll only take it out of you on the training grounds later if he can’t find you in the next few hours. You’ll have bruises no matter what.”

Kíli shrugged, propping his hip on the corner of the desk. His velvet tunic, blue with silver stitching, just like his brother’s, smelled of something astringent. “That’s all right. At least I get something from it, if it’s in training. And it was worth it. Did you _see?_ ”

“Of course I saw.” Poor Dwalin. Once Nori heard of it, he’d tease Dwalin over it for weeks and they’d be brawling half the day.

If Ori’s brother didn’t stop pulling Dwalin’s pigtails soon, Ori was seriously considering locking them in a room together, just to spare the rest of the Mountain.

Kíli laughed delightedly again. “The best part? It’s not even real ink!  It’ll wash off the moment Dwalin uses soap and water, but he’s so enraged he’s running all over Erebor and embarrassing himself without me lifting a finger!” Kíli giggled helplessly, leaning back and nearly falling off the desk itself.

“I do _not_ understand you,” Ori said finally, turning back to the old book of records Balin had left for him. Ori had become quite good at detecting the differences between original inks and false additions that didn’t match, but he couldn’t access the records from the library without permission from the Head Librarian. And permission meant exposure.

Balin could access any document in the Kingdom without telling a soul. The benefits of power, Ori supposed. He didn’t mind so much, as it was Balin. He’d learned to appreciate what a difference it made, having a Dwarrow of moral and principle in power, who cared for the people before his own well-being. Balin was definitely one such. Thorin sounded like he’d been another.

No matter what the others said, Ori rather admired Thorin for making the choice to exile himself rather than lead the others to ruin. He suspected that Balin did as well, as much as he worried over him.

Kíli, growing bored at the silence, picked up a crystal paperweight, a sealed inkpot, and an apple from the desk and started juggling them. Ori worked, focusing so intently he forgot Kíli was even there until the prince spoke again.

“He misses Thorin,” Kíli said softly.

Ori startled and looked over at him. “Sorry?”

“Dwalin,” Kíli said. He continued to juggle, not looking at Ori. “He misses Uncle. He needs something else to think of sometimes.”

Wait, did Kíli mean-? “Something else like… coming after you?”

Kíli grinned, self-deprecatingly, and caught the objects in his hands. “Better that than eating himself up over Thorin in exile. He loved him, you know?”

Ori blinked. “King Thorin? Dwalin loved _King Thorin?”_ he squeaked. Oh this wasn’t good. He didn’t even want to think about the horror of Nori competing with a _king_ for Dwalin’s affections _._

Kíli’s head cocked to the side like he couldn’t understand why Ori was so appalled before he snorted. “Oh, not like _that!_ They were like brothers. Mother always said that you never saw one without the other.”

Oh thank Mahal, Ori thought.

Kíli put the crystal and ink pot on the desk, carefully placing them exactly where he’d picked them up. He kept the apple. “And now Uncle is gone, and he left Dwalin behind. I think Dwalin is more angry about that than that Uncle left; he would have gone with him, if he’d asked.”

“Maybe that’s why he didn’t,” Ori said softly.

Kíli shrugged “Maybe.” He rolled the apple back and forth in his hands, “I miss him too,” he whispered, staring at it. Then shook his head, tossing the apple to Ori, smiling as brightly as ever. “Maybe I’m just using Dwalin to keep myself from fretting too much, too.”

Ori didn’t think so. He’d spent a lot of time around Fíli and Kíli since he’d come to the Mountain. He’d seen them joking with each other, playing pranks so childish and ridiculous that he wanted to knock their heads together at times. He hadn’t spent much time with them alone, however. He’d simply assumed Kíli was as light hearted and irresponsible as he’d seemed.

He hadn’t thought to look past it, and considering his own family and all the lessons he’d received on sneaking and misdirection, he should have.

Kíli grew silent, his smile forced, and Ori tried to think of something to say. “Nori gets Dori to yell at him,” he blurted.

Kíli stared at him, surprised, before he sniggered. “That’s not exactly a secret.”

Ori shook his head. “No, it’s only- You never knew us before, when we used to live in Ered Luin. Nori was always picked up for some petty theft or another and it would make Dori so furious he would rage about it for days. Go on and on about Nori’s reputation, and how he was wasting his life.” He took a bite of the apple, letting the tartness linger as he swallowed heavily. “And…and then we decided to come to Erebor,” he whispered.

Kíli was watching Ori rather than his hands, at least. The bruised look in his eyes –and how had Ori never noticed it before? – was banked.

“It was…it was bad. We were supposed to die,” Ori took another bite of the apple, chewing mechanically. He glanced up at Kíli and swallowed again.

“It was pure luck we made it through. They had us tied up like pigs for the slaughter. Just happened that one of the extra Men hired for the job owed Nori a favor. Made a point of asking to do the deed, to make sure Nori ‘paid’ for what he’d done. He had a trick knife he and Nori used to use for cons, with a poison on it that takes you down quiet and quick. You wake back up in a few hours, sick enough to wish you were dead, but safe. Saved our lives.”

Kíli looked at him as if wondering why he was talking about it, and Ori had to take a deep breath before he could go on.

“The thing is…Dori and I didn’t know what was going on. Nori couldn’t tell us, or he’d give it away. We thought Nori was dead. We though _we_ were dead.”

Ori shook a little, still remembering seeing Nori tied and helpless while a knife slide into Nori’s chest, the blood dripping out, watching Nori’s eyes glaze as he slumped over, and the sound of Dori screaming Nori’s name like he was being stabbed himself. Ori had been next, and the memory of hearing Dori screaming his own name was almost worse than him yelling for Nori.

Kíli swallowed, his eyes huge. “If that had happened to Fíli…” He stopped, shaking his head, unable to continue.

“None of us could talk about it, not for a long time. Dori didn’t raise his voice to Nori for months. Nori didn’t steal so much as a hairpin. Some days, you could see it in Dori’s eyes, remembering seeing Nori fall, and m-me. He’d stop smiling. He’d start fussing, organizing every shelf and drawer in the house, then stay up all hours of the night with a cup of tea that he wouldn’t drink.

“Nori, he’d watch Dori come apart. Next thing you’d see, he’d be coming back from a tavern so bruised and battered he could hardly walk.”

Kíli nodded slowly. “Sounds like Dwalin. I thought he was going to be banned from every pub in Dale after Thorin left, he started so many brawls.”

“I’ve heard,” Ori said. He remembered the rumors, although they’d arrived in Dale long after Dwalin had pulled himself back together. He wondered if Kíli had a hand in it then, too. “It was getting so bad, I was beginning to think that Nori might leave and we'd get word that he'd gone to the Halls of Waiting. And then...there was a really bad week. Dori hadn’t slept for three days straight, and Nori left again, like he always did. I thought he’d be bruised again but instead he came back with some ridiculous trinket he’d stolen. Totally useless, no reason for it, and Dori was so enraged, he screamed at him for four hours, Nori yelled back, and both of them threw most of the crockery at each other. And after that, it was like they were both able to breathe again.”

Ori smiled a little. “Now Nori does it all the time, whenever Dori starts fixating too much on what we nearly lost. Although I’ve never seen him draw a face on Dori’s nose.” Kíli sniggered, and Ori put a hand on Kíli’s arm. “It’s all right to admit that you’re trying to help Dwalin, is what I am trying to say. We all do things for people we care about, even crazy things. You don’t have to pretend that it’s only for fun.”

Kíli stared at him, and finally he leaned forward and bumped his forehead against Ori’s. “You’re cleverer than you look.”

Ori punched him in the arm and Kíli rubbed the spot with a grin.

“Thank you,” Kíli said softly. He glanced at the door and grimaced. “Although, may I stay here a bit longer? Dwalin needs another hour before he’s safe to be around.”

Ori snorted, going back to his book. “As long as I can work, stay as long as you like.”

He wasn’t sure, but he wondered if he and Kíli might have just accidentally started an actual friendship. He caught Kíli juggling again out of the corner of his eye and smiled.

He could live with that.

 

 

***

 

_TA 2914 Early Fall_

_Somewhere in Eriador_

 

Rorimac woke when his older brothers nudged him. He moved to a crouch without a sound, back facing the center of the group, his shirt and trousers so stained they looked black, streaked with pale sand where he’d been lying down. Dodinas and Dinodas crouched on either side of him, blue eyes shadowed as they watched the camp. Saradas would be directly behind Rori; he knew without having to look.

They had this down to an art, now.

Rori only heard the increase in goblin screams and squeals after he’d moved.

Pearl whispered behind him in Hobbitish. “Please, don’t. If they come...” 

Pervinca’s voice echoed her weakly. “Please.”

Rori resisted the urge to look back at them. He knew what they both looked like right now. Hair greasy and tangled, pulled back in a semblance of a braid down their backs. Their clothing as darkly stained as Rori’s, their skin pale with dark bruising in the shape of large goblin fingers and fists.

Rori ground his teeth, clenching his toes against the sandy ground as he watched for movement on his side of the camp. Nothing unusual, there. A few orcs, a few goblins, a few glances.

He hoped the goblins stepped out of line and the orcs took their heads off.

Unable to stop himself a second time, Rori glanced back quickly. Pearl and Pervinca were as bruised as he’d remembered, huddled together on the ground, surrounding by the lads. He turned around with a silent curse. This was no time to be distracted. He had to keep watch.

Because every time he saw the two lasses, he started thinking about all the Hobbits that weren’t with them. Bella, alone and scared, beaten by goblins with no one to help her. Or some of the other Took lasses, abused, their husbands killed.

And strangely, he couldn’t help but think of Lobelia as well, safe back in Hobbiton. If Bella wasn’t safe, that Ranger had said no one would be, not a single Hobbit. It hurt to think of Lobelia suffering as Pearl and Pervinca had. If Orcs came to the Shire, she’d mouth off to one and get hurt, first chance she had, he was sure of it. Temper on her nearly as bad as a Brandybuck’s.

Although he supposed Otho would look out for her, engaged as they were now. If the little weasel didn’t run to the first orc he saw and surrender.

“Don’t be stupid,” Pervinca hissed, breaking his train of thought. He heard a thud; she’d probably thumped Saradas in the back. “If you continue fighting, you’re all going to get yourselves killed! You should… you should let them…”

“That will never happen,” Dinodas said. His voice was flat. Rori echoed it in his head.

The goblins would get to the lasses over their dead bodies.

Although that was looking more and more likely, the longer they were trapped in this…this glorified rabbit wallow in the middle of an Orcish camp. Surrounded by Orcs and goblins at all times, with no cover to hide in if they tried to run. Even Took magic didn’t work on them.

The first night after Rori and his brothers were taken, they’d foolishly tried to use a bit of Took magic to see if they could slip away. It had backfired so spectacularly it was a miracle they weren’t dead. The moment Rori felt the magic take hold, the world going a bit gray and off around him, every single orc and goblin in the camp had turned their direction. The goblins had charged them, and hadn’t stopped, even after Rori had been startled into letting the magic go. The orcs had barely been able to beat the nasty little creatures into submission before Rori and the twins were overrun.

When Rori’s brother Saradas and the two lasses were brought in, Saradas shared that they’d tried to hide with their magic, too, as the Orcs were overrunning their camp, and were captured all the quicker for it.  They couldn’t hide their women that way.

“They’re not touching either of you again.” Saradas’ voice was frost cold, ice three feet thick. He spoke in Hobbitish as well. They all did, now. Rorimac echoed the thought, his fists clenching as his eyes scanned back and forth, watching the goblins moving around the sandy depression where he and the others were confined. He ignored the orcs. The orcs wanted them kept alive.

The goblins simply wanted to eat them.

Rori watched for signs that they might have to protect Pearl or Pervinca again; goblins too excited by bloodlust or hunger lost their fear of the orcs and would try to sneak in and take one of them. They had tried for Rori and his brothers equally when it was just lads, although his brothers had tried to shield him too, the great lummoxes.

But since the lasses had been brought in and the goblins realized they were weaker, and screamed louder, they went for them every time. Rori knew they all worried the goblins might have a different use for them in mind _other_ than food, but no one spoke of it.

No one spoke much at all anymore.

“My side,” Dinodas said. “New ones. Big group. Goblins with them.”

Rori clenched his teeth. New goblins didn’t always know the rules; it often took seeing a few beaten to death by orcs before they understood they should leave the Hobbits alone. Even then, the fear never lasted nearly long enough.

They’d have to be even more vigilant than usual. Last time, they’d missed one until he was almost on them, and Dinodas had paid for it. He still had the remains of his waistcoat bandaging his left eye, or what was left of it. They hadn’t been able to tell if it would heal or not.

Dinodas hissed, and Rori couldn’t stop himself from glancing his direction. He let out a small, hurt exclamation.

They had four more Hobbits with them.

More friends and family captured. They were ragged, bruised, limping. And they had another lass with them, Esmerelda, looking even worse than Pervinca.

The four of them stood, leaving Pearl to watch over Pervinca as she rested on the ground. Pervinca had been hit on the head when she was first captured. Over a week now and she was still too dizzy to move on her own, and tended to vomit if she tried to sit up.

Orcs, so huge that Hobbits barely came up to their waists, shoved the smaller goblins back and pushed their prisoners into the dusty depression that had been their home for the last two months.

Rori shifted to the side, making way for Esmerelda to be pushed into the middle with Pearl and Pervinca. The other three – Saradoc, Ilberic, and Marmadoc - closed in behind them. Smoothly, like they’d been doing it for weeks. Just like Rori.

There were a few grim, dry-eyed embraces. They waited until the orcs had growled at the gathering goblins, many licking their lips until they were beaten back. A few were hit hard enough that they never got up and were dragged off by their fellow goblins.

Dodinas and Dinodas moved in close, trying to watch the newcomers and the goblins around the camp at the same time. It was getting dark. It was always more dangerous after dark.

Dinodas started to check Esmerelda for injuries.

Marmadoc and Ilberic were the oldest Hobbits that had left the Shire, both over fifty. He would have thought it would make him feel safer, to have someone so much older, and hopefully wiser. Maybe someone who could figure how they could escape.

But Dodinas and Dinodas seemed more in control than their elders. They held themselves like Bounders, now, ready to go to battle. Marmadoc and Ilberic looked angry, but trodden down and weary.

“Sorry to see you here, lad,” Marmadoc said softly.  Ilberic’s face was swollen with bruises and he stood up against Marmadoc’s side, keeping his eyes toward the orcs at all times.

Dodinas smiled grimly. “The same. We left word about Bella. Did you get it?”

“Never had a chance to check anywhere for it. We’ve had orcs on our heels almost since we left. Is she safe now, then?”

“Not last we heard, but they’ve had us for at least two months now. She came through Bree, though, and we left word that she was seen heading east. Harod…” Dodinas stopped, and Rori knew he was seeing the Ranger’s sprawled body, hearing the crack of his neck, just like Rori. “Harod found a couple of her camps and we were trying to catch up to her when the orcs came. He didn’t make it.”

Marmadoc sighed and nodded. “We had another Ranger with us, as well. The orcs made sure to kill him first.”

“It’s likely they haven’t found her yet,” Dinodas said softly, leaving the women to crouch down with them. “If they had, I doubt we’d still be left alive.”

“That’s what I’m hoping, as well.” Marmadoc laid a hand on Ilberic’s shoulder and received a nod in return. “So, as none are looking too closely now. Is there any way out that you’ve seen?”

“We’ve found none,” Dodinas said, drawing in the dirt what looked like squiggles to any who didn’t read Hobbitish maps. “We’re kept in the middle of the camp, given water and food but we had to dig our own pit to the side there for waste. We’re never allowed movement from here, and there’s someone eyeing us all the time, day or night. We keep watch more on the south side. The goblins like to hide in the shadows of that stand of pines there and see if they can sneak over and grab one of us. They’ve learned that the lasses scream louder,” he added bitterly.

“Ours as well,” Marmadoc glanced at the girls in the middle and Rori saw that Esmerelda had red scars, clearly from claws, starting just below her jaw and disappearing down the front her blouse. He realized it was her husband Saradoc’s shirt, rather than her own blouse, the same time as Dodinas, going by the quick indrawn breath.

“They…they didn’t manage to…”

“One of the goblins tried but an orc caught him and cut his head clean off. Saradoc won’t let her out of reach, now.” Marmadoc gestured to Saradoc standing directly up against Esmerelda, watching the camp.

“Have they said anything where you can hear?” Marmadoc asked. “What they plan to do with us? Or if they are going to take us anywhere after here?”

“Nothing in Westron that isn’t taunts or threats. At least they can’t understand us either, if we wish.” Dodinas looked around and Rori saw the despair he was trying to hide from the rest. “If they gather any more of us…perhaps you can take Pearl and Rorimac and run. Some days, the crowd is a bit thinner in one direction. You might be able to break through…”

“And then those who are left behind would pay for it,” Ilberic said quietly. “And I notice you don’t include yourself in that. If you wouldn’t leave Pervinca and Saradas, why assume any of us would, lad?”

Dodinas looked at his brother and shook his head. Saradas had been a little sweet on Pervinca before they’d volunteered for this, but by the time Saradas and the two sisters had been brought into camp, Saradas was devoted to her. He wouldn’t leave her, and they weren’t leaving their brother.

Including Rori, even if he had to hit Dodinas in the head until he understood that.

“We won’t be leaving any who cannot leave on their own two feet,” Ilberic said. “Most of us would barely be able to move, besides, with how little we’ve been fed.”

Dodinas nodded, reaching for Dinodas’ hand before he caught himself. Rori honestly didn’t think anyone would care how close the twins had become since they’d been captured. Dodinas and Dinodas had always shared everything, including a few lovers when they’d snuck off to Bree as soon as they turned twenty. Their relationship now wasn’t the sort of thing approved of in the Shire, but here…

Rori couldn’t see how it mattered. They all huddled together at night for warmth. They had to drop their trousers and lift skirts with others looking over their shoulders to make sure goblins didn’t try to grab them when they had to answer the call of nature. There was no privacy any longer, and what any Hobbit did to take comfort among these creatures, Rori couldn’t see how it was a bad thing.

“The food’s been a bit better since they stopped moving and made camp here. We haven’t moved in over a month,” Dodinas said. “We’ll make sure the weakest get enough to keep up their strength, but figure out who’s the strongest among you. Make sure they _stay_ strong. We need to keep the goblins back when they get braver than they should. And if the time comes that we need to run, if we have enough of us who can move, we can carry those who can’t.”

“You should run, if you have the chance.” Pervinca’s voice was still soft, but stronger than it had been in days.

“I will not leave you,” Saradas snarled.

“If you have a chance to get away and you don’t because of me, I will never forgive you, Saradas Brandybuck!” Pervinca snapped back, her voice tear choked and furious.

Saradas knelt down by her and cupped a hand around her neck, kissing her on the forehead. “If that’s the way it must be, then so be it. Because I couldn't live if I left you behind,” he said.

Pervinca leaned into him and hit him once in the shoulder. “I hate them,” she murmured, but Rori could hear her just fine. “If I ever get myself a good frying pan, I would knock every one of them right in the head.”

“Have to get to them before me,” Dodinas said, looking at Dinodas’ bandaged head.

“And me,” Marmadoc and Ilberic said, nearly at the same time. Rori looked around at them all, nodding to the sentiment. Every Hobbit there was filthy, hair matted and uncombed, clothing dark with sweat stains and mud and worse, bruised and hurt. And every one looked at the goblins and orcs and knew what it was to feel the desire to harm another creature.

He wished he was still naïve enough to hope that someone would come to save them, Gandalf or the Rangers, but that hope had faded within the first week. Now, he only hoped that their sacrifice had been worth it, that Bella and others of his family were safe from the orcs and goblins.

And if Rori didn't make it, he would do his best to take a few of the goblins with him, before he died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, this one took a bit, ouch!
> 
> So, first off, I’m using what seems like a common concept(?) that goblins are the small ones, and orcs are the big ones.
> 
> Second, I accidentally left the following out of the previous notes, but thought it might be interesting enough trivia to go here.
> 
> \- Dwarf names – I got curious enough to look up the poetic Edda that Tolkien got his dwarf names from (http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Völuspá ) and I have taken most of my Dwarf names from it as well.
> 
> \- Hobbits – all the Hobbit names are those that Tolkien came up with himself, even Odovacar, which seemed a bit of the odd man out, really. However, in this story, many of the Hobbits themselves I have changed from their canonical places in the family tree, or have changed their time line to be older or younger than they were at this point. I used the lovely Hobbit Family Tree by the LOTR project to acquire the names.
> 
> For those curious, here are the hobbits whose relationships, at least, remain true to canon:
> 
> Primula Brandybuck is married to Drogo Baggins (in canon, Frodo ‘Ring-bearer’ Baggins’ parents)  
> Primula’s siblings: Rorimac, Saradas, Asphodel, Amaranth, Dinodas and Dodinas (who were not, to my knowledge, twins, but with those names, they should be!)  
> Esmerelda Took is married to Saradoc Brandybuck (in canon, Merry’s parents)  
> Siblings: Pimpernel, Pervinca, and Pearl Took (in canon, sisters to Pippin)


End file.
